Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen!

  BROTHER JOHN TEZEL,

  Apostolic Commissioner, signed by his own hand.

  Without rising from his knees Hervé frequently interrupted the reading of the document with suppressed signs of pleased and blissful astonishment. The absolution that he was now the owner of extended to the past, it covered the present, it reached the future. As Fra Girard called the purchaser’s attention to the fact, the document bore no date and thereby extended the apostolic efficacy over all the sins, all the crimes that the holder of the indulgence might commit to the end of his days. Hervé folded the parchment and inserted it into the scapulary that hung from his neck under his shirt, bowed down till his forehead touched the slab of the floor at the foot of the sanctuary and kissed it devoutly. Alas! The unfortunate lad was sincere in his frightful thankfulness towards the divine power that granted him the remission. His mind being led astray by a detestable influence, he felt himself, he believed himself, absolved of all the wrongs that his delirious imagination raved over. Fra Girard contemplated the prostrate lad with an expression of sinister triumph. The latter suddenly rose and, as if seized with a vertigo, staggered towards the railing of the chapel. The Franciscan held him back by the arm, and pointing at the image of the Virgin, arrayed in a flowing robe of silver cloth studded with pearls, and her head crowned with a golden crown that glistened in the semi-darkness of the dimly-lighted sanctuary, said in a solemn voice:

  “Behold the image of the mother of our Savior, and remember the words of the Apostolic Commissioner. Even if the horrible sacrilege that he mentioned were a feasible thing, it could be absolved by the letter that you now own. If that is so, and it may not be doubted, what then becomes of the remorse and the terrors that have assailed you during the last three months? Since the day when, distracted with despair by the discovery of the frightful secret that had lain concealed in the bottom of your heart, you came to me, and yielding, despite yourself, to the irresistible instinct that whispered to you: ‘Only in faith will you be healed,’ you confessed your trials to me — since that day you have hourly realized that your instinct guided you rightly and that my words were true. To-day you are assured of a place in paradise. Hervé — do you hear me?”

  “I hear,” and after a moment of pensiveness: “Oh, celestial miracle for which, with my forehead in the dust, I rendered thanks to the mother of our Savior. Yes, since a minute ago, from the moment that I became the owner of this sacred schedule, my conscience has regained its former serenity, my mind is in peace, my heart is full of hope. I now only need to will and to dare — I shall will, I shall dare! Mine is the bliss of paradise!”

  Hervé uttered these words with calm conviction. He did not lie. No, his conscience was serene, his mind at peace, his heart full of hope, even the lines on his face seemed suddenly transfigured; their savage and tormented expression made room for a sort of blissful ecstasy, a slight flush again enlivened the cheeks that frequent fasts, macerations and mental conflicts had paled. The monk smiled silently at the metamorphosis; he took Hervé by the arm, walked with him out of the church, and as the two stepped out upon the street said to him:

  “You have now entered upon the path of salvation; your faith has been tried — will you still hesitate to join the ranks of the militants, who openly preach and cause this faith to triumph, the miraculous efficacy of which you have yourself experienced this day? Think of the glory of our holy mother the Church.”

  “Speak not now to me of such things. My thoughts are elsewhere — they are near my sister Hena.”

  “Very well; but, Hervé, never forget what I have often told you, and that your modesty makes you disregard. Your intelligence is exceptional; your erudition extensive; heaven has endowed you with the precious gift of a persuasive eloquence; the monastic Orders, especially the one to which I belong, I say so in all humility, recruit themselves carefully with young men whose gifts give promise of a brilliant future; this is enough to tell you of what priceless value you would be to our Order; you could make with us a rapid and brilliant career; you might even become the prior of our monastery. But I shall not pursue this subject; you are not listening to me; we shall take up the matter later. Where are you going so fast?”

  “I am going back to my father, to the printing shop of Master Robert Estienne.”

  “Be prudent — above all, no indiscretion!”

  “Girard,” answered Hervé with a slightly moved voice and after a second’s reflection, “I know not what may happen during the next few days; I will, and I shall dare; can I at all events count upon obtaining asylum in your cell?”

  “Whatever the hour of the day or night may be, you may ring at the little gate of the convent, where the faithful repair who come to ask our assistance for the dying; ask the brother gateman for me; that will let you in and you will find an inviolable asylum within our walls; you will there be sheltered from all pursuit.”

  “I thank you for the promise, and I rely upon it. Adieu. Think of me in your prayers.”

  “Adieu, and let me see you soon again,” answered the Franciscan as he followed with his eyes the rapidly retreating figure of Hervé. “Whatever may happen,” added Fra Girard to himself, “he now belongs to us, body and soul. Such acquisitions are precious in these days of implacable struggle against heresy. God be praised!”

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE “TEST OF THE LUTHERANS.”

  AT THE TIME of this narrative there rose at about the middle of St. John of Beauvais Street a large, new house built in the simple and graceful style recently imported from Italy. Upon a gilt sign, ornamented with the symbolical arms of the University of Paris, and placed immediately over the door, the inscription: ROBERT ESTIENNE, PRINTER was painted in bold letters. Heavy iron bars protected the windows of the ground floor against any bold attempts that might be contemplated by the bandits that the city was infested with, and the defensive precaution was completed by a heavy sheet of iron fastened with heavy nails to an already solid and massive door that was surmounted by a sculptured allegory of the Arts and Sciences, an elegant piece of work from the chisel of one of the best pupils of Primaticio, a celebrated Italian artist whom Francis I called to France. The house belonged to Master Robert Estienne, the celebrated printer, the worthy successor of his father in that learned industry, and one of the most erudite men of the century. Profoundly versed in the Latin, Greek and Hebrew languages, Master Robert Estienne raised the art of printing to a high degree of perfection. Passionately devoted to his art, he lavished so much care upon the publications that issued from his establishment, that not only did he himself correct the proofs of the Latin, Greek and Hebrew works which he printed, but he furthermore stuck the revised proofs to his office door and kept them there for a certain time with the offer of a reward to whomsoever should point out an error or blemish. Among the handsomest works published by Master Robert Estienne were a Bible and a New Testament, both translated into French. These two productions were the admiration of the learned and the source of profound uneasiness to the Sorbonne and the clergy, who felt as alarmed as irritated to see the press popularize the textual knowledge of the holy books that condemned a mass of abuses, idolatrous practices and exactions which the Church of Rome had for centuries been introducing into the Catholic cult.

  Robert Estienne was recently wedded to Perrine Bade, a young and handsome woman, the daughter of another learned printer, and herself well versed in the Latin. The home of Robert Estienne presented the noble example of those bourgeois families whose pure morals and virile domestic virtues so strongly contrasted with the prevalent corruption of those days. Accused of being a partisan of the religious Reformation, and both the Sorbonne and parliament, both of which were bound by personal and material interests to the Catholic cause, having expressed their anger at him, Robert Estienne would long before have been dragged to the pyre as a heretic, but for the powerful protection of Princess Marguerite of Valois, the sist
er of Francis I, a woman of letters, of daring spirit, a generous nature, and withal secretly inclined to the reform. The King himself, who loved the arts and letters more out of vanity and the desire to imitate the princes of Italy than out of true intellectual loftiness, extended his protection to Robert Estienne, whom he considered an illustrious man whose glory would reflect upon his prince as a Maecenas. His rare mental equipment, his talent, and, last not least, the considerable wealth that he had inherited from his father and increased by his own labor, had won for the celebrated printer numerous and bitter enemies: his fellow tradesmen were jealous of the inimitable perfection of his works: the members of the Sorbonne, of the parliament and of the court, among all of whom the King and his evil genius, the Cardinal and Chancellor Duprat, distributed the goods confiscated from the heretics, had many times and oft expected to be about to enrich themselves with the plunder of Robert Estienne’s establishment. But ever, thanks to the potent influence of Princess Marguerite, the printer’s adversaries had remained impotent in their machinations against him. Nevertheless, knowing but too well how capricious and precarious royal favor is, Robert Estienne was ever ready for the worst with the serenity of the wise man and the clear conscience of a man of honor, while the affection of his young wife was a source of inexhaustible support in his struggle with the evil-minded.

  The workshop of Master Robert Estienne occupied the ground floor of the house. His artisans, all carefully selected by himself, and almost all of whom were the sons of workmen whom his father had employed before him, were worthy of the confidence that he reposed in them. More than once did they have to repel with arms the assaults of fanatical bandits, egged on by the monks, who pointed at the printing shop as a hot-bed of diabolical inventions that should be demolished and burned down. The populace, ignorant and credulous, rushed upon the house of Robert Estienne, and but for the courage displayed by the defenders of the establishment, the place would have been looted. Due to such possibilities many employers felt under the necessity of building around themselves a sort of bodyguard composed of their own workmen. The famous goldsmith Benvenuto Cellini, whom Francis I invited from Florence to settle in Paris, was in such constant dread of the jealousy of the French and Italian artists, that he never went out upon the street without being accompanied by several of his pupils, all armed to the teeth. And not long ago he had sustained a regular siege in the little Castle of Neste of which the King had made him a present. The fray lasted two full days; victory remained with Benvenuto and his private garrison; and Francis I was highly amused at the occurrence. Such is the order that reigns in the city, such the security enjoyed by the citizens in these sad days.

  Robert Estienne’s establishment resembled an arsenal as much as it did a printing shop. Pikes, arquebuses and swords hung near the presses, the composers’ cases or the stone tables. Although it was night, Christian remained on this evening at the shop; he remained behind upon his master’s request, and was waiting for him. The artisan’s face, which had borne the marks of worry since the conversation that he had with his son Hervé on the preceding night, now looked cheerful. When Hervé returned from the Church of St. Dominic, long after the customary hour for work to be begun at Master Estienne’s shop, and saw his father surprised and displeased at the renewed absence from work, he said hypocritically:

  “Please do not judge me by appearances; be sure, father, that I shall again be worthy of you — you will pardon me a fatal slip. I begin to realize the danger of the influence that I was blindly yielding to.”

  Saying this, the lad had hastened to make good the lost time, and diligently set to work. Shortly after, the conversation among the workingmen turned accidentally upon the sale of indulgences, which they condemned with renewed energy. So far from violently taking up the cudgels for the nefarious traffic, as he had done on previous occasions, Hervé remained silent and even looked confused. Christian drew favorable conclusions from his son’s embarrassment.

  “Our last night’s conversation must have borne good fruit,” thought the artisan to himself; “the poor boy’s eyes must have been opened; he must have realized that fanaticism was driving him down into an abyss. Patience! The principles in which I brought him up will win the upper hand. I may now hope for the better.”

  When towards the close of the day’s work he was notified by Master Estienne that he wished to speak with him, and was asked to remain behind, Christian told his son to inform Bridget of the reason of his anticipated delay, in order that she be not alarmed at not seeing him home at the usual hour. When he was finally left alone at the shop, he continued the paging of a Latin book by the light of a lamp. In the midst of this work he was interrupted by one of his friends named Justin, a pressman in the shop. Some urgent presswork had kept him in a contiguous room. Surprised at finding Christian still at work, Justin said:

  “I did not expect to find you here so late, dear comrade. The hour for rest has sounded.”

  “Master Estienne sent me word asking that I wait for him after the shop closed. He wishes to speak with me.”

  “That fits in with my plans. I had meant to call at your house this evening and propose a trip for to-morrow to Montmartre, in order to visit the place that you know of — the more I think of the matter, the more convinced am I that we could select no better place for our purpose.”

  “I am inclined to believe you after all the details that you have given me upon the matter. But are you quite certain that the place offers us all the requisite guarantees of secrecy and safety?”

  “In order to convince ourselves fully upon the matter, I wished to examine the place once more with you. It is a long time since I was there. Maybe the place is no longer what it was. Well, shall we make the investigation to-morrow evening?”

  “Yes; I think it is high time for us to set to work, and organize our army, Justin! I can see no other means to combat our powerful enemies; they seem almost all-powerful. From day to day they become more threatening. On their side they have force, numbers, power, audacity, the judges, the trained soldiers, the priests, the jailers and executioners, moss-grown tradition, the ferocious fanaticism of a populace whose mind is poisoned and who are misled by the monks. And we, what have we? This,” added Christian pointing to a printing press that stood in the center of the shop, “that instrument, that lever of irresistible force — thought — the mind! Courage, my friend! Let us, humble soldiers of reason, know how to wait. The printing press will change the face of the earth — and all our casqued, mitred and crowned tyrants will have seen their day! The printing press will be the weapon of emancipation!”

  “As well as you, Christian, I have faith in that future, whether it be near or far away. Thought, subtle as light itself, will penetrate everywhere. The midnight darkness of ignorance will be dispelled, and freedom will dart its rays upon all. Let us to work, Christian. The moment we shall have chosen our place, we will put our projects into execution. I shall be at your house to-morrow evening. The moon will be up late; her light will guide us; and—” here Justin interrupted himself saying: “Here is our master; I shall leave you. Until to-morrow! I shall be promptly on time.”

  “Till to-morrow,” answered Christian as his friend left by a door of the shop that opened upon a deserted side street.

  Master Robert Estienne, a man of about thirty years of age, was of middle size, and of a firm, kind and at once serious physiognomy. His eyes sparkled with intelligence; a few premature lines furrowed his wide forehead; study and concentration of mind had begun to thin out his hair. He wore a coat and puffed-out hose of black taffeta; a white crumpled cap sat upon his head, and seemed fastened under his chin by a light and closely cropped beard that ended in a point.

  “Christian,” said Robert Estienne, “I have a service to ask of you, a great service.”

  “Speak, Master Estienne; you know the feelings that I entertain for your house and all that concerns you; I am as devoted to you as my father was to yours. If it pleases God,” added the a
rtisan smothering a sigh, “it will be so with my son towards yours.”

  “These long-continued relations between our two families honor them both, Christian. It is for that reason that I do not hesitate to ask a great service from you. This is the matter: As you know, my house is a thorn in the side of my enemies; without mentioning the assault that it had to sustain against the wretched fanatics whom the monks aroused against it, the place is constantly spied upon. The persecutions redouble in number and vehemence against all those who are suspected of favoring the religious Reformation, especially since printed placards violently hostile to the Church of Rome were posted over night in the streets of Paris. John Morin, the Criminal Lieutenant and worthy instrument of Cardinal-Chancellor Duprat, who keeps himself informed by the miserable spy who goes under the name of Gainier, keeps Paris in a state of terror through his police searches. Only the other day he issued an order by which the sergeants of the gendarmes are empowered at all hours of the day or night to search from cellar to garret the residence of whomsoever is accused of heresy. I am among these. Despite the protection of Princess Marguerite, it may happen that, at any moment, my domicile is invaded by the lackeys of Duprat’s lieutenant.”