Kitabı oku: «The Pocket Bible; or, Christian the Printer: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century», sayfa 7

CHAPTER VII.
BROTHER ST. ERNEST-MARTYR

The moment the Franc-Taupin left the house the stranger said to Christian:

"Your brother-in-law's story is a revelation to me. The past life of Ignatius Loyola explains to me his present life."

"But who is that man? Whence the interest, curiosity and even alarm that he seems to inspire you with?"

Christian was saying these words when his wife descended from the floor above. The sight of her reminded him it was urgent that the stranger be taken to the garret before the return of Josephin. "Bridget," he accordingly said to his wife, "has Hena gone to bed?"

"Yes; both the dear children have retired for the night."

"Master Robert Estienne has confided a secret to me and asked of me a service, dear Bridget. For two or three days we are to hide Monsieur John, our guest of this evening, in this house. The garret seems to me to offer a safe retreat. I have temporarily got your brother out of the way. Take our refugee upstairs; I shall remain here to wait for Josephin."

Bridget took up again the lamp that she had deposited upon the table, and said to the stranger as she prepared to lead the way upstairs:

"Come, monsieur; your secret will remain with Christian and myself; you may rely upon our discretion."

"I am certain of that, madam," answered Monsieur John; "I shall never forget your generous hospitality;" and addressing the artisan: "Could you join me later, after your brother-in-law has gone? I should like to speak with you."

"I shall join monsieur after Josephin's departure," Christian answered the stranger, who followed Bridget to the upper loft.

The latter two had both withdrawn when suddenly an uproar was heard in the street. Peals of laughter were interspersed with the plaintive cries of a woman. Although quite familiar with these nocturnal disorders, seeing that the Guilleris, the Mauvais-Garçons, the Tire-Laines and other bandits infested the streets at night, and not infrequently disturbed the carousals of the young seigneurs bent upon their debauches, Christian's first impulse was to go out to the help of the woman whose cries resounded ever more plaintive. Considering, however, that no decent woman would venture outside of her house at such a late hour, and, above all, fearing that by interfering in the affray he might provoke an assault upon his house and thereby put the safety of his guest in jeopardy, he contented himself with partly opening the window, whereupon, by the light of the torches held by several pages dressed in rich liveries, he saw three seigneurs, evidently just come from some orgy, surrounding a woman. The seigneurs were in an advanced stage of intoxication and sought to drag the woman after them; she resisted and held her arms closely clasped around a large cross that stood in the center of the bridge. The woman cried imploringly: "Oh, leave me, seigneurs. In the name of heaven, leave me! Mercy! Have pity for a woman – mercy, seigneurs!"

"May the flames of St. Anthony consume me if you do not come with us, strumpet!" yelled one of the seigneurs, seizing the woman by the waist. "A street walker to put on such airs! Come, my belle, either walk or we shall strip you on the spot!"

"You are mistaken, seigneurs," answered the poor creature panting for breath in the unequal struggle; "I am an honest widow."

"Honest and a widow!" exclaimed one of the debauchees. "'Sdeath, what a windfall! We shall marry you over again."

Saying which the seigneurs tried anew to tear their victim from the foot of the cross to which she clung with terror and screamed aloud for help. Attracted by the cries, a young monk, who happened to be in a nearby side street, ran to the scene, saw the distressed condition of the persecuted woman, and rushed at her aggressors, saying in a deeply moved voice:

"Oh, brothers, to outrage a woman at the very foot of the cross! That is a cowardly act, condemned by God!"

"What business is that of yours, you frockist, you convent rat!" cried one of the assailants, stepping towards the monk with a menacing gesture. "Do you know whom it is that you are talking with? Do you know that I have the power, not only to kill you, but to excommunicate you, you beggar? I am the Marquis of Fleurange, the colonel of the regiment of Normandy, and over and above that, Bishop of Coutances. So, then, go your ways quickly and without further ado, you tonsured knave and mumbler of masses. If you do not, I shall use my spiritual powers and my temporal powers – I shall excommunicate you and run you through with my sword!"

"Oh, Brother St. Ernest-Martyr! Come to my help! It is I, Mary La Catelle!" cried the young widow, as she recognized the monk by the light of the torches. "For pity's sake stand by me!"

"Oh, my brothers!" cried the monk indignantly, running towards Mary. "The woman whom you are outraging is a saint! She gathers the little children that are left unprotected; she instructs them; she is blessed by all who know her; she is entitled to your respect."

"If she is a saint, I am a bishop – and between a female saint and a bishop the relations are close!" answered the Marquis of Fleurange with a winey guffaw. "She loves children! 'Sdeath, she shall be delighted! I shall swell her family!"

"You shall kill me before you reach her!" cried the monk, vigorously thrusting the marquis back. The latter, being heavily in his cups, reeled, swore and blasphemed, while Brother St. Ernest-Martyr threw himself between the widow, who clung to the cross, and her assailants. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked defiantly at the seigneurs and said to them challengingly, as he barred their way to their victim:

"Come forward, if you will; but you will have to kill me before you touch this woman!"

"Insolent frockist! You dare threaten us and to raise your hand against me!" yelled the colonel-bishop furious and tottering on his unsteady limbs; and drawing his sword in its scabbard out of his baldric, he took it in both his hands, and struck so hard a blow with its heavy hilt upon the forehead of the monk, that the latter was dazed by the blow, staggered backward, and fell bleeding from an ugly scalp wound at the feet of Mary La Catelle.

Despite the caution that his guest's safety imposed upon him, Christian could no longer remain a passive witness of such acts of brutality; he entertained a respectful esteem for the young widow whose virtuous life he was acquainted with; moreover, he feared lest the monk, who had so generously interposed between the drunken seigneurs and their victim, be subjected to further maltreatment. Christian shut the window, armed himself with a heavy iron bar, slipped quietly out of his house, shut the door after him without making any noise, in order to prevent its being known from whence he came, and, seeing several of his neighbors, whom the disturbance had drawn to their windows, he shouted:

"To your clubs, my friends, to your clubs! Will you allow women to be assailed, and defenseless men to be killed? To your clubs, my friends, to your clubs! Let us save the victims!"

Saying this, Christian ran resolutely upon the three seigneurs and their pages. At that very moment, the Franc-Taupin returned upon the bridge with the pot of Argenteuil wine that he had gone after. Seeing the artisan by the light of the torches and hearing him summon the neighbors to their clubs, the Franc-Taupin deposited the pot of wine at the threshold of the door, drew his sword and rushed to the fray crying:

"By the bowels of St. Quenet, here I am! My fine blade has not taken the air for a long time! It itches in my hands! Death to the enemies of the good people of Paris! Death to the nobles and their pages!"

Several of Christian's neighbors answered his summons and issued from their houses, some armed with clubs, others with pikes. For a moment the three seigneurs stood their ground bravely; they drew close abreast of one another and drew their swords. Their pages, however, as much out of fear of being hurt in the broil as out of mischief, suddenly put out their torches and screamed:

"Seigneurs! There is a squad of armed constables coming this way! There, on the bridge! Look out! Run who run can!"

Upon shouting this lie the pages ran off as fast as their legs could carry them and left their masters and their assailants in utter darkness. The three seigneurs did not feel much concern on the score of the constables, who never dared to suppress the disorders of the nobility; but realizing that they had to do with eight or ten determined men, the assailants of the defenseless woman profited by the darkness in which they found themselves to slip away upon the heels of their pages, while Christian's neighbors called for lanthorns in order to raise the wounded man. The artisan ran back into his house, lighted, and came out with a taper. By the light the monk was discovered stretched out at the foot of the cross, with his head bathed in the blood that ran profusely from his scalp wound. On her knees beside him, and weeping tears of thankfulness, Mary La Catelle sought to staunch the wound of her defender. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr was carried into Christian's house with the help of the Franc-Taupin and some neighbors. The artisan offered asylum also to the widow, who was almost fainting with fright. Commissioned by her husband to conduct the stranger to the garret, the only window of which opened upon the river, Bridget remained ignorant of what was occurring upon the street. When, however, she returned downstairs, great was her surprise and alarm at the sight of Mary La Catelle, pale, her dress thrown into disorder, and leaning against a table compassionately contemplating the wounded young monk. The latter was slowly regaining consciousness, thanks to the attention that he was receiving from the artisan and the Franc-Taupin.

"Good God!" cried Bridget, hastening to approach the young widow. "Look at the poor monk covered with blood. What has happened, Mary?"

"I was delayed at a friend's longer than I had expected; her maid servant accompanied me home; we were crossing the bridge when several swaggering seigneurs approached and made insulting remarks to us. The poor servant was frightened and ran away, leaving me alone. The men sought to drag me away with them. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr happening by, came to my rescue; he received on the forehead a blow with the hilt of a sword and fell bleeding at my feet. Happily your husband and several neighbors rushed to our help; thanks to them we escaped further maltreatment from our assailants; but the poor monk is wounded."

"Dear sister, let me have some fresh water and some lint," said the Franc-Taupin to Bridget. Having often been wounded in war the soldier of adventure had some knowledge of the dressing of wounds.

"I shall go upstairs for the lint, and bring my daughter down to help you," answered Bridget as she proceeded to the storey above.

Slightly recovered from her own fright, Mary La Catelle drew nearer to the monk with deepening interest. The Franc-Taupin looked around and said to Christian:

"What has become of your guest? Did he show the white feather? I would have preferred he were a braver man."

"No, no, Josephin. Our guest left the house shortly before the disturbance on the street; he feared it was growing too late for him."

"Why did he not wait for me? I would have escorted him home safely after emptying our pot of Argenteuil. But, coming to think of it," the Franc-Taupin broke off, while he left Christian to hold up the head of the friar, "I shall pour a few drops of wine down the wounded man's throat; the devil! wine has the miraculous power of being as helpful to the sick as to the well;" and taking up the pot he approached it to his own lips. "Before administering the potion to others let me try it myself – it is the duty of all prudent pharmacists to assure themselves of the quality of their own medicine."

While the Franc-Taupin was thoroughly "trying" the beverage, Bridget came down again with her daughter. The latter had hastily put on her clothes. Her brother also, whom the noise had awakened, dressed himself and came out of his room. Hervé was on the point of inquiring from his father what was the cause of the commotion in the house when his eyes alighted upon St. Ernest-Martyr, and he recognized the man whom his sister Hena had ingenuously called "her monk." A flash of lightning shot from Hervé's eyes and for an instant his looks assumed a ferocious expression. The lad, however, controlled his sentiments and closely watched his sister and the friar, to the latter of whom the Franc-Taupin was administering a few mouthfuls of the comforting wine. Speedily recalled to himself by the strengthening elixir, Brother St. Ernest-Martyr opened his eyes. Before him he saw, like a celestial apparition, the angelic countenance of Hena, who, with eyes moist with pity, held out to her uncle with a trembling hand the lint that he was using to dress the wound of the monk whose head Christian held in his hands. When he had completely regained consciousness and collected his thoughts, the monk became aware of the solicitude with which he was surrounded by the family that had taken him in; tears of gratitude and tenderness welled up in his eyes and rolled down his face, which, pale with the loss of blood, recalled the touching beauty that painters impart to the image of Christ. The expression of ineffable gratitude on the monk's countenance gave it at the moment so sweet a charm that Hervé trembled with suppressed rage. His anger was such that it even threatened to break out when he surprised the eyes of the monk and of his sister once as they accidentally met. The lad noticed that both dropped their eyes and seemed embarrassed. These circumstances escaped all the other members of the family. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr turned his head towards Christian and said to him in a feeble voice:

"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.