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

"And I shared your sister's emotion, Hervé," replied Bridget, addressing her son, who, silent and absorbed in his own thoughts, had dropped out of the conversation. "You can not imagine with what charming benignity the young monk instructed those little ones; he measured his words to their intelligence, in order to indoctrinate them with the simple and pure evangelical morality. Mary La Catelle assured us that his knowledge was no less than his virtue."

Two raps at the street door from without interrupted the conversation.

"At last!" said Bridget to Hervé. "This is surely your father. The streets are not quite safe at night. I prefer to see him indoors. I hardly think we shall see my brother this evening. The hour for supper is long gone by," observed Bridget, stepping towards her husband, to whom Hervé had opened the house door.

Christian came in accompanied with the unknown personage, a young man of, however, a striking countenance by reason of its expression of deliberate firmness. His black eyes, instinct with intelligence and fire, were set so close that they imparted a singular character to his pale and austere visage. At the sight of the unexpected visitor Bridget made a gesture of surprise.

"Dear wife," said Christian, "I have brought Monsieur John along for supper. He is an old friend whom I accidentally met to-day."

"He is welcome to our house," answered Bridget, while the two children looked at the stranger with curiosity. As was her custom, Hena embraced her father affectionately; but Hervé, looking at him with a timid and repentant eye, seemed doubtful whether to follow his sister's example. The artisan opened his arms to his son and whispered in his ear as he pressed him to his heart:

"I have not forgotten your fair promises of this morning," and turning to his guest: "This is my family – my daughter is an embroiderer, like her mother; my eldest son is, like myself, a printer in Monsieur Robert Estienne's workshop; my second son, who is apprenticed to an armorer, is now traveling in Italy. Thanks to God our children are wise and industrious, and deserve to be loved as my worthy wife and I love them."

"May the blessing of God continue upon your family," answered Monsieur John in an affectionate voice, while Hena and her brother arranged the covers and set upon the table the dishes that had been prepared for the family meal.

"Bridget," said Christian, "where is your brother?"

"I had just been wondering at his absence, my friend; I would feel uneasy, if it were not that I rely upon his bravery, his long sword – in short, upon his general appearance, which is not exactly attractive to sneaking night thieves," added Bridget with a smile. "Neither Tire-Laines nor Guilleris will be very anxious to attack a Franc-Taupin. We need not wait for him; if he comes he will know how to make up for lost time at table, and will take double mouthfuls."

The family and their guest sat down to table, with Monsieur John placed between Christian and Bridget. Addressing her, he said:

"Such order and exquisite propriety reigns in this house, madam, that the housekeeper deserves to be complimented."

"Household duties are a pleasure to me and to my daughter, monsieur; order and cleanliness are the only luxuries that we, poor people, can indulge in."

"Sancta simplicitas!" said the stranger, and he proceeded with a smile: "It is a good and old motto – Holy simplicity. You will pardon me, madam, for having spoken in Latin. It was an oversight on my part."

"By the way of Latin," put in the artisan, addressing his wife, "did Lefevre drop in during the day?"

"No, my friend; I am as much surprised as yourself at the increasing rareness of his calls; formerly few were the days that he did not visit us; perhaps he is sick, or absent from Paris. I shall inquire after him to-morrow."

"Lefevre is a learned Latinist," said Christian, addressing Monsieur John; "he is one of my oldest friends; he teaches at the University. He is a rough and tough mountaineer from Savoy. But under his rude external appearance beats an excellent heart. We think very highly of him."

Christian was about to proceed when he was interrupted by the following ditty that came from the street, and was sung by a sonorous voice:

"A Franc-Taupin had an ash-tree bow,
All eaten with worms, and all knotted its cord;
His arrow was made out of paper, and plumed,
And tipped at the end with a capon's spur.
Derideron, vignette on vignon! Derideron!"

"It is uncle! His favorite song announces him!" said Hena joyfully, as she rose to open the house-door.

CHAPTER VI.

THE FRANC-TAUPIN

Josephin, Bridget's brother, surnamed Tocquedillon the Franc-Taupin, stepped into the room. A soldier of adventure since his fifteenth year, he had run away from the paternal home, and soon thereafter enrolled with the Franc-Taupins, a sort of irregular militia, whose duty it was to dig the trenches intended to cover the approaches of the assailants at the siege of a city. These mercenary soldiers were named "Franc-Taupins" because, like the franc archers, they were "frank" or free from taxation, and because their underground work bore great resemblance to that of the taupe– mole. Once out of their trenches, the saying was, the Franc-Taupins displayed but little courage. Whether justly or unjustly, the poltroonery of the Franc-Taupin became proverbial, as evidenced by the favorite song of Bridget's brother. This personage, however, was anything but a poltroon. Just the reverse. After he had twice or three times turned up the earth at as many sieges, he disdained to belong to a corps of such cowardly renown, and enrolled in another irregular militia, one that stood in general dread – the Adventurers or Pendards, of whom a contemporaneous writer drew the following and, unfortunately, but too truthful picture:

"What a vagabond, flagitious, murderous set are these Pendards! They are deniers of God, ravishing wolves, violators of women, devourers of the people! They drive the good man out of his house, empty his pot of wine and sleep in his bed. Their garb matches their disorderly habits. They wear shirts with long sleeves, open in front and exposing their hirsute chests; their streaked hose do not cover their flesh; their calves are left bare and they carry their socks in their belts for fear of wearing them out. Poultry trembles in the hen-coops at their approach, and so does bacon in the pantry. Brawling, roistering, audacious, ever with their mouths wide open, they love nothing better than to guzzle in company the wine that they have jointly stolen."

Despite his intrepidity in war, and without resembling at all points this picture of the Pendards, Tocquedillon the Franc-Taupin, preserved strong features of the same. For all that, however, he adored, venerated his sister, and from the moment that he sat down at her hearth he would seem metamorphosed. Nothing in either his words or his conduct would then recall the audacious adventurer. Timid, affectionate, realizing how unbecoming the slang of the tavern or of even worse places would be in the presence of Bridget's children, of whom he was as fond as of her herself, he always controlled himself and never uttered in their presence any but decorous language. For Christian he had as much love as respect. As the saying goes, he would have gone through fire for the family. The Franc-Taupin was at this time about thirty years of age; he was lean, bony and about six feet high. Scarred with innumerable wounds, and partly blinded in battle, he wore a large black patch over his left eye. He kept his hair close cropped, his beard cut into a point under his chin, and his moustache twisted upward. His nose was pimply through excessive indulgence in wine, and his thick-lipped mouth, slit from ear to ear, exposed two rows of desultory shark's teeth every time that, as a true roisterer, he gave a loose to his imperturbable mirthfulness.

The moment he stepped into the room, the Franc-Taupin deposited his old and weather-beaten sword in a corner, embraced his sister and her two children, shook hands cordially with Christian, bowed respectfully to the unknown man, and timidly took his usual place at the family table.

Christian came to the relief of his brother-in-law's embarrassment and said to him jovially:

"We would have felt uneasy at your absence, Josephin, if we did not know that you are of those who, with their swords at their side, defy the world and are able to defend themselves against all assailants."

"Oh, brother, the best sword in the world will not protect one against a surprise; the surprise that I have just experienced has knocked me down. As my surprise tastes strongly of salt, I am dying with thirst – allow me to empty a cup." After his cup was emptied the Franc-Taupin proceeded with a scared look: "By the bowels of St. Quenet, what did I see! I'm quite certain that I am not deceived; I have only one eye left, but it is good for two. By all the devils, I saw him! I saw him distinctly! A singular encounter!"

"Whom did you see, Josephin?"

"I saw, just now, just before nightfall, here, in Paris, Captain Don Ignatius Loyola, a Spanish nobleman – a devil of a fighter and an inveterate lover of amorous adventures – a terrible man."

At the mentioning of Ignatius Loyola's name the guest at Christian's table shuddered, while Christian himself asked the Franc-Taupin:

"But who is that Spanish captain the sight of whom in Paris affects you so greatly?"

"Did you really know the man?" inquired Monsieur John in an accent of deep interest. "Did you know Ignatius Loyola personally?"

"I should think I did! I was his page."

"And so, Loyola was a captain?" again inquired Monsieur John, more and more interested in what the Franc-Taupin said. "You must, then, have some information on the man's life, his character, his habits. Please tell us something about him."

"By the bowels of St. Quenet! I was continuously with him for three whole months! By all the devils, I never left his side, either day or night!"

"What were his morals?"

"Oh! Oh! friend guest, I would not like to answer that question in my sister's presence – it is too racy a story."

"Friend Christian," said Monsieur John, "I notice that you are surprised at my curiosity concerning the Spanish captain. You will some day understand that the information in question interests you as well. It will be an interesting history for you to know."

"Hena, Hervé," said the artisan, "supper is nearly ended, my children; it is growing late; you may retire."

"And I," put in Bridget, "have some embroidery to finish; I shall go upstairs and work at it with Hena; I shall come down later and put away the dishes. You can call for me, Christian, if you need anything. You and Josephin can entertain our guest."

Hervé embraced his father with an affectation of increased tenderness, and withdrew to his bedroom; Bridget and her daughter went upstairs. The unknown man and Christian remained alone with the Franc-Taupin, and the latter proceeded, laughing:

"My sister and her children being out of the way, my tongue is at freedom. Tell me, brother, did you ever hear the story of the greyhound? The handsomest bitches sighed after him; he remained insensible to all their tender growls; one day a monk's frock was thrown upon him, and he immediately became as amorous as one possessed. Well, Captain Loyola was as possessed for love adventures as the greyhound in the story, without, however, having need of a monk's frock to give him the start; and – but I was almost forgetting. Do you know, brother, in whose company I saw the fire-eater and hell-rake this evening? With your friend Lefevre."

Christian remained for an instant speechless with astonishment; and turning to Monsieur John, he said:

"I must admit that great is my astonishment. Lefevre, whose name I mentioned to you before, is an austere man, wholly absorbed in scientific pursuits and in study. What can he have in common with the Spanish libertine? I am unable to explain the mystery."

"If you are surprised, brother, no less so am I," replied the Franc-Taupin. "Captain Loyola, whom fourteen or fifteen years ago I knew as the handsomest, gayest and most dissolute of cavaliers, dressed in velvets, silks and lace, looks to-day as tattered as any tramp or starving beggar. The transformation is so radical, that I never would have thought of looking for my frisky Spanish captain under the black smock-frock of a halepopin, had it not been for Lefevre, who, stopping me near the booths of the market place, which I was then crossing, inquired after you. It was then that I looked more attentively at his seedy companion and recognized – Don Ignatius!"

"The man's relations astonish me so much, Josephin, that I am no less impatient than our guest to hear you."