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The latter two had both withdrawn when suddenly an uproar was heard in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-Garcons, 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. Herve 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 Herve'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 Herve
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
Herve 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,
Herve, 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-Garcons, 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 Herve, 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 Herve 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!"
Herve 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, Herve 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--"
Herve 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.