Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “That is unfortunately true; your enemies are powerful and numerous.”

  “Well, now, Christian, a man whom I love like my own brother, an honorable man, foe to the priests, and proscribed by them, has asked me for asylum. He is here since last evening, in hiding. I am in constant apprehension of having my house searched, and my friend’s place of refuge discovered. His life is at stake.”

  “Great God! I can understand your uneasiness. Your friend is, indeed, in great peril.”

  “Driven to this extremity, I determined to turn to you. It occurred to me that your happy obscurity saves you from the espionage that pursues me. Could you extend hospitality to my friend for two or three days, and take him this very evening to your house? You would be running no risk.”

  “With all my heart!”

  “I shall never forget this service,” said Master Robert Estienne, warmly pressing the artisan’s hand; “I knew I could count upon your generosity.”

  “All I wish to remind you of, sir, is that the asylum is as humble as it is safe.”

  “The proscribed man has for several months been accustomed to travel from city to city; more than once, the generous apostle has spent the night in the woods and the day in some dark cavern. Any place of refuge is good to him.”

  “That being so, I have this proposition to make to you. I live, as you know, on the Exchange Bridge; there is a garret under the roof of the house; it is so very low one can hardly stand in it; but it is sufficiently ventilated by a little window that opens upon the river. To-morrow morning, after my son and I shall have left the house to come to the shop, my wife — I shall have to take her into the secret, but I answer for her as for myself—”

  “I know it, Bridget deserves your full confidence; you may tell her everything.”

  “Well, then, to-morrow morning, after we shall have left the house, my wife will send my daughter on some errand or other, and will, during her absence, transport to the garret a mattress, some bed linen and whatever else may be necessary in order to render the refuge bearable. To-night, however, our guest will have to resign himself to a simple quilt for bedding; but a night is soon over—”

  “That matters little. But how is he to be taken to your house to-night without the knowledge of your family? I know your domestic habits. Your wife and children are now waiting for you to take supper in the ground floor room, the door of which opens on the bridge. They will all see you come in with the stranger. Then also, it occurs to me, does not your wife’s brother, the old Franc-Taupin, join you almost every evening at meals? That is an additional difficulty to be overcome.”

  “That is true; and I do not intend to take him into the secret, although his faults — and these are numerous with the poor soldier of adventure — are wholly counterbalanced in my eyes by his devotion to my family; he fairly worships his sister and her children.”

  “How, then, shall we manage this evening?”

  “I shall take the proscribed man to my house as an old friend whom I met and invited to supper. As customary, my son and daughter will withdraw to their rooms after the meal, and my wife, her brother the Franc-Taupin, if he calls this evening, and I will remain alone with my guest. I shall then request my wife’s brother to go out for a pot of wine in order that we close the day pleasantly. The wine is sold at a tavern near the wharf and at some little distance from my house. I shall profit by the Franc-Taupin’s absence in order to apprize my wife in a few words of the secret; my guest will go up into the garret: and when my brother-in-law returns I shall tell him that our guest feared it would grow too late, and left, requesting me to present his regards to the Franc-Taupin and bid him adieu. As you see, the matter can be safely and secretly arranged.”

  “Yes, very well. But, Christian, there is a matter that I must seriously call your attention to. It is not an impossible thing that, despite all your precautions, the proscribed man may be discovered in your house by the police of Duprat’s lieutenant; it is my duty to remind you that, in such an event, you run the risk of imprisonment, perhaps even of a severer, more terrible punishment; remember that justice can not be relied upon in these days. The ecclesiastical tribunals are implacable; it is with them — torture or death.”

  “Master Estienne, do you think me accessible to fear?”

  “No, I know your devotion to me. But I wish you to feel sure that were it not for the strictness of the surveillance that is kept over my house, and that renders it impossible for me to offer asylum to the friend whom I entrust to you, I would not then expose you to dangers that I would otherwise be anxious myself to brave. I first thought of hiding him in my cottage at St. Ouen; that country-seat is secluded and far enough from the village. But for several reasons that I am not yet free to communicate to you, my friend should remain hidden in the very heart of Paris. I repeat it, Christian: if, however improbable, it should betide that you are put to trouble, if harm should come to you by reason of the service that you will have rendered me, your wife and your children will find protection and support in my family.”

  “Master Estienne, I shall never forget that my father, laboring under the shameless calumnies of the successor of the printer John Saurin, would have himself and his family died of hunger and despair but for the generous assistance of your father. Whatever I may do, never could I pay that debt of gratitude to you and yours. My modest havings and myself are at your disposal.”

  “My father acted like an upright man, that was all; but if you absolutely insist upon considering yourself in our debt, your noble assistance in this instance will be to us one more proof of your gratitude. But I have not yet told you all, worthy Christian. Yielding no doubt to a feeling of delicacy, you have not asked me in behalf of whom I solicited asylum with you.”

  “The proscribed man is worthy of your friendship; he is an apostle, Master Estienne; need I know more?”

  “Without imparting to you a secret that is not mine, I feel free to inform you that this proscribed man is the bravest of the apostles of the Reformation. I owe only to your personal attachment the service that you render to me, seeing that, in granting asylum to my friend, you are not yet aware whether you are in accord with his ideas. Your generous action is dictated by your affection towards me and mine; in my turn, I now contract a debt of gratitude towards you and yours. And once upon this subject, Christian,” added Master Estienne in penetrating accents, “allow me frankly to state my thoughts to you with respect to your son. We have recently talked more than once upon the worry that he caused you; I regret the circumstance doubly; I expected great things from Hervé. He has developed a variety of aptitudes in other directions besides the mechanical part of our art in which he begins to excel. The lad’s precocious knowledge, his exceptional eloquence — all these qualities ranked him in my eye among that small number of men who are destined to shine in whatever career they embrace. Finally, that which enhanced with me Hervé’s intellectual powers was the goodness of his heart and the straightforwardness of his character. But his habits have latterly become irregular; his one-time affectionate, open and communicative nature has undergone a change. I have hitherto refrained from letting him perceive the grief that his conduct caused me. In the midst of all this I imagine he has preserved some love and respect for me. Would you authorize me to have a serious and paternal conversation with him? It may have a salutary effect.”

  “I thank you, Master Estienne, for your kind offer. I am glad to be able to say that I have reasons to think that since to-day my son has turned to better thoughts; that a sudden and happy change has come over him, because—” Christian could not finish his sentence. Madam Estienne, a handsome young woman of a sweet and grave countenance, precipitately entered the shop and handing to her husband an open letter said to him in a moved voice:

  “Read, my friend; as you will see, there is not a minute to lose;” and turning aside to Christian: “Can we count with you?”

  “Absolutely and in all things, madam.”

  “There is
no longer any doubt!” cried Master Estienne after he read the letter. “Our house will be searched, this very night perhaps; they are on my friend’s tracks.”

  “I shall run for him,” said Madam Estienne; “Christian and he will go out by the side street. I think the house is watched on the St. John of Beauvais Street side.”

  “Master Estienne,” said the artisan to his employer, “in order to make assurance doubly sure I shall go down to the end of the side alley and reconnoiter whether the passage is clear; I shall explore it thoroughly.”

  “Go, my friend, you will find us in the small yard with the proscribed man.”

  Christian left the shop, crossed the small yard, drew the bolt of a door that opened into the side alley and stepped out. He found the lane completely deserted, from end to end not a soul was in sight. Although it was night there was light enough to see a long distance ahead. Having convinced himself that the issue was safe, Christian returned to the door of the yard where he found Master Estienne pressing in his own the hand of a man of middle size and clad in plain black.

  “Master Estienne,” said Christian to his employer, “the alley is deserted; we can go out without being seen by anyone.”

  “Adieu, my friend,” said Master Estienne in a trembling voice to the proscribed man. “You may rely upon your guide as upon me. Follow him and observe all that he may recommend to you for your safety. May heaven protect your precious life!”

  “Adieu! Adieu!” answered the unknown who seemed to be no less moved than the printer; saying which he followed Christian. After issuing from the alley and walking for a while in the direction of the Exchange Bridge, the two men arrived at a gate which they had to pass in order to cross the Cour-Dieu. At that place their progress was delayed by a compact mass of people who were gathered near the gate, in the center of which was a turnstile intended to keep horses and wagons from entering the square. Many patrolmen were seen among the crowd.

  “What is the meaning of this gathering?” inquired Christian from a man of athletic carriage, with the sleeves of his shirt turned up, a blood-bespattered apron and a long knife by his side.

  “St. James!” exclaimed the butcher in a tone of pious satisfaction; “the reverend Franciscan fathers of the Cour-Dieu have been struck by a good idea.”

  “In what way?” again Christian asked. “What is their idea? Inform us of what is going on.”

  “The good monks have placed upon the square in front of the door of their convent a lighted chapel at the foot of a beautiful station of the Holy Virgin, and a mendicant monk stands on either side of the statue, with a club in one hand and a purse in the other—”

  “And what is the purpose of the chapel and the mendicant monks and their clubs?”

  “St. James!” and the butcher crossed himself; “thanks to that chapel the Lutheran dogs can be discovered as they pass by.”

  “How can they be recognized?”

  “If they pass before the chapel without kneeling down at the feet of the Holy Virgin, and without dropping a piece of money into the purse of the mendicant monks, it is a proof that the painim are heretics — they are immediately set upon, they are slain, they are torn to shreds. Listen! Do you hear that?”

  Indeed, at that moment, piercing shrieks half drowned by an angry roar of many voices went up from the interior of the Cour-Dieu. As the turnstile allowed a passage to only one person at a time, the approaches of the square were blocked by a crowd that swelled from moment to moment and that was swayed with the ardent desire to witness the Test of the Lutherans, as the process was called. Every time that the cries of a victim ceased, the clamor subsided, and the mob awaited the next execution. The butcher resumed:

  “That painim has ceased to scream — his account is settled. May the fire of St. Anthony consume those laggards who are getting so slowly through the gate! I shall not be able to witness the killing of a single one of those accursed fellows!”

  “My friend,” said the mysterious companion of Christian to the butcher, “those Lutherans must be very great criminals, are they not? I ask you because I am a stranger here—”

  A score of voices charitably hastened to answer the unknown man, who, together with Christian was so completely hemmed in by the crowd that they had no choice but patiently to wait for their turn at the turnstile.

  “Poor man, where do you come from?” said some, addressing the unknown. “What! You ask whether the Lutherans are criminals? Why, they are infamous brigands!”

  And thereupon they vied with one another in citing the felonies that the reformers were guilty of:

  “They read the Bible in French!”

  “They do not confess!”

  “They do not sing mass!”

  “They believe neither in the Pope, nor the saints, nor in the virginity of Mary, nor in holy relics!”

  “Nor in the blood of our Savior! — nor in the drop of milk of his holy mother! — nor in the miraculous tooth of St. Loup!”

  “And what do those demons substitute for the holy mass? Abominable incantations and orgies!”

  “Yes, yes — it is so!”

  “I, who now speak to you, knew the son of a tailor who was once caught in the net of those ministers of the devil. I’ll tell you what he saw — he told me all about it the next day. The Lutherans assembled at night — at midnight — in a large cave, men, young girls and women to celebrate their Luthery. A rich bourgeois woman, who lived on the same street with the tailor attended the incantation with her two daughters. When all the canting hypocrites were assembled, their priest donned a robe of goatskin with a headgear of spreading oxhorns; he then took a little child, spread the poor little fellow upon a table lighted by two tall wax candles, and, while the other heretics sang their psalms in French, interspersed with magical invocations, their priest cut the child’s throat!”

  “The assassins! The monsters! The demons!”

  “The priest of Lucifer thereupon gathered the child’s blood in a vase and sprinkled the assembly with the warm gore! He then tore out the child’s heart and ate it up! That closed the celebration of the Luthery.”

  “Holy St. James, and shall we not bleed these sons of Satan to the last man?” cried the butcher, carrying his hand to his knife, while the proscribed man exchanged significant glances with Christian and remarked to those standing near him:

  “Can such monstrosities be possible? Could such things have happened?”

  “Whether they are possible! Why, Brother St. Lawrence-on-the-gridiron, a reverend Carmelite who is my confessor, told me, Marotte, there never was an assembly of those heretics held without at least one or two little children being sacrificed.”

  “Jesus, God! Everybody knows that,” pursued the first narrator; “the tailor’s son that I am talking about witnessed the heretical orgy; he saw everything with his own eyes; then, after the Lutherans had been sprinkled with the child’s blood as a sort of baptism, their priest spoke up and said: ‘Now, take off your clothes, and pray to God in our fashion. Long live hell and the Luthery!’ As soon as he said this, he put out the two wax candles, whereupon all the he and she canting hypocrites, with as much clothing on as Adam and Eve, men, women and young girls, all thrown helter-skelter in the dark — well, you understand — it is an abomination!”

  “What a horror! Malediction upon them!”

  “Mercy! May God protect us from such heretics!”

  “Confession! Such infamies portend the end of the world!”

  “Brother St. Lawrence-on-the-gridiron, the reverend Carmelite friar, my confessor, told me, Marotte, that all the Lutheries closed in the same fashion. The good father felt so indignant that he gave me accurate details upon the devilish heretics; they were details that made my cheeks burn red and hot like a piece of coal.”

  These snatches of reports, that summed up the stupid and atrocious calumnies spread about by the monks against the reformers, were interrupted by new shrieks and vociferations that went up from the Cour-Dieu. Listening with secre
t disgust and silent indignation to the calumnious indignities that were huckstered about by an ignorant and credulous populace, Christian and the unknown man in his charge had followed the stream of the crowd, and presently found themselves under the vault of the gate that led to the square, whence they could take in at a glance what was happening there. A sort of altar lighted with wax candles rose in front of the main entrance to the Franciscan Convent; a life-sized statue of the Virgin wrought in wood and gorgeously attired in a robe of gold brocade and with her face painted like a picture, surmounted the altar. Several Franciscan monks, among whom Christian recognized Fra Girard were stationed near the lighted chapel. Two of them, holding large velvet purses in their hands, were posted one on either side of the statue. A large crowd of tattered men and women, of cynical, repulsive or brutal countenances, all armed with clubs and grouped near the door of the convent, stood waiting for the moment when, at a signal from the monks, they were to rush upon the ill-starred passer-by who was designated as suspected of heresy. Each passer-by had inevitably to cross the square at only a slight distance from the statue of the Virgin. If they knelt down before it and dropped their alms into the purse of the mendicant friars, no danger threatened them. But if they failed to fulfil this act of devotion, the ferocious band that stood in waiting would be let loose at the signal from the monks, and would rush upon the Lutheran, beat him with their sticks, and not infrequently leave him lying dead upon the square. All the persons who were just ahead of Christian and the unknown man proceeded straight to the altar, and either out of fear or out of piety knelt down before the image of the Virgin and then rose and deposited their offerings in the purse held out by the Franciscans. A man, still young but frail and short of stature, behind whom Christian stood, said to himself in an undertone just as he was about to thread the turnstile and emerge into the square: