Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “I am a Catholic, but by the blood of God! I prefer to be cut to pieces rather than submit to such extortion. May the devil take the monks!”

  “You will be wrong,” said Christian to him in a low voice. “I revolt as much as you at the indignity. But what is to be done against force? Submit to the ignominy.”

  “I shall protest at the peril of my life! Such excesses dishonor religion,” the man answered Christian, and stepping out of the gate into the square with a firm step, he crossed the place without turning his head in the direction of the altar. Hardly, however, had he passed by when the tattered mob who stood near the monks, ready at the latters’ beck, rushed forward in pursuit of the unhappy fellow; they overtook him, surrounded, and bawled at him: “Heretic!” “Lutheran!” “He insults the image of the mother of the Savior!” “Down on your knees!” “The canting hypocrite!” “Down on your knees!” “Death to the heretic!”

  While these fanatics surrounded their victim, Christian said to his companion:

  “Let us profit by the tumult to escape from these ferocious beasts; unfortunately it were idle to seek to snatch that senseless but stout-hearted man from the clutches of his assailants.”

  Christian and the unknown man in turn stepped out of the gate into the square and were hurriedly walking towards the opposite issue without stopping at the altar when, being caught sight of by the monks, the latter cried out:

  “There go two other heretics! They are trying to escape without kneeling before the holy Virgin! Stop them! Bring them back and make them empty their purses!”

  The voices of the Franciscans did not reach the ears of the demoniac pack, greedy as it was for its prey; they emitted savage yells as they beat to death, not a heretic, but a Catholic, whose sin consisted in refusing to submit to an adoration imposed upon him in a brutal manner, and which he otherwise would cheerfully have complied with. After the unhappy fellow had bravely defended himself with his cane, the only weapon that he carried, he was finally overwhelmed by numbers and fell livid, bleeding, and almost unconscious upon the pavement. A horrid-looking shrew seized him by the hair and while she dragged the almost lifeless body towards the altar other dastards from the dregs of the mob struck him in the face with their feet.

  “Mercy!” cried the unhappy fellow in a faint voice. “Jesus! — My God! — Have pity upon me! — They are murdering a good Catholic!”

  These were the brave fellow’s last words. His voice was soon heard no more. The butcher with whom Christian had exchanged a few words ran towards and joined the assassin mob. He piously knelt down before the statue of the Virgin, then rose, drew his knife, and brandishing it in the air cried:

  “St. James! Let me bleed the damned Lutheran! It will be worth an indulgence to me! You know, bleeding is my profession!”

  The sanguinary sally was received with loud outbursts of laughter; room was made for the butcher near the bleeding body; he squatted upon its still palpitating chest, slashed his knife through the prostrate man’s throat, cut the head from the trunk, seized it by the hair, and, holding up the shocking trophy to the gaze of the mob, he cried with wild ecstasy:

  “The heretic dog would not bow down before the mother of the Savior — he shall now plant his forehead on the pavement at her feet!”

  So said, so done. Followed by the demented band at his heels, the butcher ran back to the altar, holding the livid head in his hands, red and streaming with the warm blood of the victim; he knelt down himself, and slammed the head face down upon the ground at the feet of Mary, amidst the savage acclaim of his fellow assassins, all of whom piously threw themselves down upon their knees like himself.

  “Oh, monsieur, this is frightful!” murmured Christian suffocating for breath as his companion and he stepped out of the square. “To think that such horrors are perpetrated in the name of the benign mother of Christ! Oh, the wretches, as stupid as they are bloodthirsty!”

  “Ignorance, misery and fanaticism! — that is their excuse. Let us not blame these unhappy people; they are what the monks have made them,” answered the unknown with a bitter and desolate smile. “Oh, these monks, these monks! When will society be finally purged of the infernal breed!”

  Christian and his companion hastened their steps towards the artisan’s house, nor dared they to turn and look behind.

  CHAPTER V.

  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 Hervé 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. Hervé 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 Hervé 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; Hervé 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 Hervé’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 Hervé, 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, Hervé 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.

  “Hervé,” 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 Hervé’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 desc
ribed. But proceed with the story.”

  “But who is that monk? Where did you see him? How did you happen to know him?” Hervé interrogated his sister in short, set words, inspired by an ill-suppressed agonizing feeling of jealousy. The naïve girl, however, mistaking the sentiment that prompted her brother’s question, answered him merrily:

  “Oh! Oh! Seigneur Hervé, you are very inquisitive. First finish your story; I shall tell you afterwards.”

  Affecting a pleasant tone, Hervé 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 Hervé, 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, Hervé,” 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 Hervé. “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 Hervé 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 Hervé, 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 knott
ed 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.

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE FRANC-TAUPIN.

  JOSEPHIN, BRIDGET’S BROTHER, surnamed Tocquedillon the Franc-Taupin, stepped into the room. A soldier of adventure since his fifteenth year, he had run away from the paternal home, and soon thereafter enrolled with the Franc-Taupins, a sort of irregular militia, whose duty it was to dig the trenches intended to cover the approaches of the assailants at the siege of a city. These mercenary soldiers were named “Franc-Taupins” because, like the franc archers, they were “frank” or free from taxation, and because their underground work bore great resemblance to that of the taupe — mole. Once out of their trenches, the saying was, the Franc-Taupins displayed but little courage. Whether justly or unjustly, the poltroonery of the Franc-Taupin became proverbial, as evidenced by the favorite song of Bridget’s brother. This personage, however, was anything but a poltroon. Just the reverse. After he had twice or three times turned up the earth at as many sieges, he disdained to belong to a corps of such cowardly renown, and enrolled in another irregular militia, one that stood in general dread — the Adventurers or Pendards, of whom a contemporaneous writer drew the following and, unfortunately, but too truthful picture:

  “What a vagabond, flagitious, murderous set are these Pendards! They are deniers of God, ravishing wolves, violators of women, devourers of the people! They drive the good man out of his house, empty his pot of wine and sleep in his bed. Their garb matches their disorderly habits. They wear shirts with long sleeves, open in front and exposing their hirsute chests; their streaked hose do not cover their flesh; their calves are left bare and they carry their socks in their belts for fear of wearing them out. Poultry trembles in the hen-coops at their approach, and so does bacon in the pantry. Brawling, roistering, audacious, ever with their mouths wide open, they love nothing better than to guzzle in company the wine that they have jointly stolen.”