MONSIEUR JOHN.
"Fear not; I have a certain means of regaining the good graces of my
family"--such were among the last words said by Herve to Fra Girard as
they stepped out of the Church of St. Dominic, where he purchased the
letter of indulgence that absolved him in advance from all his future
misdeeds. Herve was, alas! true to his promise. Back long in advance of
his father that evening under the paternal roof, he pursued his plan of
infernal hypocrisy, and succeeded in awaking in his mother's breast the
same hopes for the better that he awoke in the breast of Christian.
Seeing Herve pray her feelingly to suspend her judgment with regard to
himself on the theft that he was suspected of; seeing him admit that,
however late, he now realized the fatal effect of a dangerous influence
over himself; finally, seeing her son respond with unexpected
effusiveness to the affectionate greeting of his sister, Bridget said to
herself, as Christian had done: "Let us hope; Herve is returning to
better sentiments; the painful conversation of last night has borne its
fruit; our remonstrances have had a salutary effect upon him; the
principles that we have inculcated in him, will regain their sway. Let
us hope!"
With a heart, now as brimful of joy as it was of distress on the
previous evening, the happy mother busied herself with preparing the
evening meal. No less joyful than Bridget at the return of Herve's
tenderness, Hena was radiant with happiness, and the sentiment enhanced
her beauty. Barely in her seventeenth year, lithesome and generously
built, the young girl wore her golden-blonde hair braided in two strands
coiled over her head and crowning her blooming cheeks. The gentleness of
her features, that were of angelic beauty, would have inspired the
divine Raphael Sanzio. White as a lily, she had a lily's chaste
splendor; candor and kindness stood out clear in the azure of her eyes.
Often did those eyes rest upon that naughty yet so dearly beloved
brother, of whom the poor child had feared she was disliked. Seated
beside him, and engaged at some needle-work, she now felt herself, as in
former days, filled with sweet confidence in Herve, while the latter,
once more affectionate and jovial as ever before, entertained himself
pleasantly with his sister. By a tacit accord, neither made any allusion
to the recent and painful past, and chatted as familiarly as if their
fraternal intimacy had never suffered the slightest jar. Despite his
self-control and profound powers of dissimulation, Herve was ill at
ease; he felt the necessity of speaking, and sought distraction in the
sound of words in order to escape the obsession of his secret thoughts.
He rambled at haphazard from one subject to the other. Brother and
sister were thus engaged as Bridget absented herself for a moment on
the floor above in pursuit of some household duty.
"Herve," the young girl was saying to her brother, thoughtfully, "your
account interests me greatly. How old would you take that monk to be?"
"I could not tell; perhaps twenty-five."
"He had a face that was at once handsome, sad and benign, did he not?
His beard is of a somewhat lighter hue than his auburn hair; his eyes
are black, and he is very pale; he has a sympathetic countenance."
While thus chatting with her brother, Hena proceeded to sew and could
not notice the expression of surprise that Herve's face betrayed. His
feelings notwithstanding, he answered:
"That is a very accurate description. One must have observed a person
very attentively in order to preserve so life-like a picture of him. But
what induces you to believe that the monk in question is the handsome
auburn-haired monk, whose picture you have just sketched?"
"Why, did you not just tell me, dear brother, that you recently
witnessed a touching action of which a monk was the author? Well, it
struck me that probably he was the friar that I described. But proceed
with the story."
"But who is that monk? Where did you see him? How did you happen to know
him?" Herve interrogated his sister in short, set words, inspired by an
ill-suppressed agonizing feeling of jealousy. The naive girl, however,
mistaking the sentiment that prompted her brother's question, answered
him merrily:
"Oh! Oh! Seigneur Herve, you are very inquisitive. First finish your
story; I shall tell you afterwards."
Affecting a pleasant tone, Herve replied as he cast upon his sister a
sharp and penetrating look: "Oh! Oh! Mademoiselle Hena, you twit me with
being inquisitive, but, it seems to me, that you are no less so. Never
mind, I shall accommodate you. Well, as I was saying, when passing this
morning by the porch of St. Merry's Church, I saw a crowd gathered, and
I inquired the reason. I was answered that a babe, six months old at the
most, had been left over night at the portal of the church."
"Poor little creature!"
"At that moment a young monk parted the crowd, took up the child in his
arms, and with tears in his eyes and his face marked with touching
compassion, he warmed with his breath the numb hands of the poor little
waif, wrapped the baby carefully in one of the long sleeves of his robe,
and disappeared as happy as if he carried away a treasure. The crowd
applauded, and I heard some people around me say that the monk belonged
to the Order of the Augustinians and was called Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr."
"Why 'Martyr'--and he so charitable?"
"You do not seem to know, sister, that when taking orders a monk
renounces his family names and assumes the name of some saint--such as
St. Peter-in-bonds, or St. Sebastian-pierced-with-arrows, or St.
Lawrence-on-the-gridiron, or St. Anthony-with-the-pig--"
"Oh, what mournful names! They make one shudder. But the last one is
really grotesque."
"Well," proceeded Herve, without detaching his prying eyes from Hena,
"Brother St. Ernest-Martyr was hastily walking away with his precious
burden when I heard someone remark:
"'I am quite sure the good monk will take the poor little one to Mary La
Catelle'--"
"I thought so!" exclaimed Hena ingenuously; "I knew it was he; it is my
monk!"
"How, your monk?" asked Bridget smiling, her heart dilating with joy as
she descended the stairs and saw her son and daughter engaged in cordial
conversation as was their former wont. "Of what monk are you talking,
Hena, with so much unction?"
"Do you not know, mother, La Catelle and her school? Do you remember
that charming woman?"
"Certainly, I do. I remember the young widow Mary La Catelle. The school
that she founded for poor children is a work of touching charity, which,
however, also owes a good deal to John Dubourg, the linen draper of St.
Denis Street, and to another rich bourgeois, Monsieur Laforge. They both
generously sustain La Catelle and her sister Martha, the wife of Poille,
the architect, who shares with her the maternal cares that she bestows
upon poor orphans whom she takes up in her house--a place which has
justly earned the name of 'the house of God'."
"Do you remember, mother," Hena proceeded with her reminiscences, "that
when we went to the house of La Catelle, it happened to be school hour?"
"Yes, an Augustinian monk was instructing a group of children who stood
around him or sat at his feet, and some were seated on his knees."
"Well mother, I listened to the monk as he was explaining to the
children the parable of: 'Wicked are they who live on the milk of a
sheep, who clothe themselves in her fleece, and yet leave the poor beast
without pasture.' He uttered upon that subject words imprinted with such
sweet and tender charity, and yet so easy for the intelligence of
children to grasp, that tears came to my eyes."
"And I shared your sister's emotion, Herve," 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 Herve. "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 Herve 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 Herve, 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.