After being separated from her mother, Hena Lebrenn was taken to the Augustinian Convent and locked up. One day during her confinement she narrated the incidents of her incarceration in a letter destined for Bridget, but which never reached the ill-starred mother, due to a series of distressful circumstances. Hena wrote:
After being separated from her mother, Hena Lebrenn was taken to the Augustinian Convent and locked up. One day during her confinement she narrated the incidents of her incarceration in a letter destined for Bridget, but which never reached the ill-starred mother, due to a series of distressful circumstances. Hena wrote:
"December, 1534. At the Convent of the Augustinians.
"Joy of heaven! I am given the assurance, dear mother, that you will receive this letter. My thoughts run wild in my head. I wish I could tell you, all at once, all that has happened to me since our separation until this moment. Alas! I have so many things to communicate to you. You all—yourself and my good father, and my uncle Josephin—will be so astonished, and perhaps so chagrined, to know that this very day—
"But I must go back with my narrative, and begin with that unhappy day when we were led away, you to the Chatelet prison, I to this place. I am ignorant of what may have happened to you and to father. All my questions on those topics have ever remained unanswered.They assure me you are in good health—that is all. I hope so; I believe it. What interest could they have in deceiving me regarding your lives?
"Well, I was brought to this place in the dark of night, and locked up in a little cell, without having seen a soul except the turning-box attendant. What would it avail to tell you how I wept? In the morning the attendant informed me that I would be visited at noon by the Madam Superior. I asked leave to write to my family in order to inform them of my whereabouts. I was answered that the Mother Abbess would have to decide about that. She called upon me at noon. At first, I thought I had before me a lady of the court, so superbly ornamented she was. There was nothing in her dress to recall the religious garb. She is young and handsome. Methought I could read kindness on her face. I threw myself at her feet, imploring her to have pity upon me, and to have me taken to my parents. This was her answer:
"'My dear daughter, you have been brought up in impiety. You are here in order to labor at your salvation. When you are sufficiently instructed in our holy Roman Catholic and apostolic religion, you shall take the eternal vows to enter our Order of the Augustinians. You will then be allowed to see your parents again. You are not to leave this cell before taking the veil. You will be allowed out every day only to take a little walk under the archway of the cloister, in the company of one of our sisters. It depends upon yourself how promptly you will have gained the religious instruction necessary to enter our Order, afterwhich you will be allowed to receive your family once a week in the convent parlor.'
"'But, madam,' I answered the Abbess, 'I have not the religious vocation. Even if I had, I would not take vows without the sanction of my father.'
"'Your father is in heaven; He is our Lord God. Your mother also is in heaven; she is the holy Virgin Mary. Your obedience is due to those divine parents, not to your carnal and heretical parents. These have infected you with a pestilential heresy. The Lord, in His mercy, has willed, for the salvation of your soul, that you be removed from that school of perdition. The pale of our holy mother the Church is open to you. Come back to it. Be docile and you shall be happy. Otherwise, greatly to my regret, I shall employ rigor, and constrain you to your own welfare. Beginning with to-morrow, one of our brothers of the Order of St. Augustine will come to impart religious instruction to you. You are to have no intercourse with your parents before you have taken the vows. It depends, then, upon yourself how soon you will see your parents again. Think it over well.'
"Without wishing to hear me any further, the Mother Superior left me alone.
"The choice left to me was to embrace the monastic life, or give up the hope of ever seeing you again, dear father! dear mother! The bare thought made me shudder. I thought of resisting the orders of the Abbess. I thought that, if they were made to know my determination, they would set me free. Great was my error!
"Towards evening one of the sisters came and proposed to take a walk with me under the archway of the cloister. I declared to her that no human power could compel me to take vows that would forever separate me from my beloved parents. The nun, a woman with a sharp and wicked face, recommended to me to think before speaking, adding that, if I obstinately refused salvation, they would know how to lead me to obedience by severe treatment. Our promenade ended, I returned to my cell. My supper was brought to me. I went to bed steeped in sadness.
"At midnight I was rudely waked up. The old turning-box attendant came in, accompanied by four others, large and strong women. One of them carried a lanthorn. I was afraid. I sat up on my couch, and asked what they wanted of me.
"'Rise and follow us,' answered the old nun. I hesitated to obey. She then added: 'No resistance, otherwise these sisters will take you by force.'
"I resigned myself. I started to put on my dress, but the nun threw upon my couch a sort of horsehair sack which she had brought with her.
"'That is the only dress you are henceforth to use!' she said.
"I robed myself in the haircloth, and was about to put on my shoes when the nun again put in:
"'You are to walk barefoot. Your rebellious flesh must be mortified.'
"The expression on the faces of that woman and of her companions looked to me pitiless. I realized the uselessness of resistance or of prayer. Barefoot and clad in the haircloth I followed the nuns. One of them lighted our way with her lanthorn. We crossed the cloister and several long passages. A solitary low window, shaded from within by a red curtain through which a bright light shone, opened upon one of these passages. While passing the place I heard a man's voice singing, accompanying himself on an arch-lute. The song was received with peals of laughter that proceeded from several men and women, gathered in the apartment. Their words reached our ears distinctly. They seemed to me to be such as no honorable woman should hear.
"The nun hastened her steps, and we entered a little court. One of the turning-box attendants opened a door; by the light of the lanthorn I noticed a staircase that descended under ground. Seized with fear I drew back, but pushing me forward by the shoulders the nun said:
"'Go on! Go on! We are taking you to a place where you will meditate at leisure over your obstinacy.'
"I followed the turning-box attendant with the lanthorn. I descended the steps of the stone staircase. The moisture froze my naked feet. At the bottom of the staircase was a vaulted gallery upon which several doors opened. One of them was opened, and I was made to step into a vault where I saw a box shaped like a coffin and filled with ashes, a wooden prie-dieu surmounted by a cross, and near the bed of ashes an earthen pitcher and a piece of bread on the floor.
"'This is to be your dwelling place until you shall haverecovered from your stubbornness,' said the nun to me. 'If solitude and mortification do not subdue your rebellious spirit, recourse shall be had to other chastisements.'
"I was left alone in the vault without a light. When the door was closed and locked upon me, I threw myself upon my couch of ashes. I was shivering with cold. The haircloth smarted me insupportably. The darkness frightened me. I recalled, poor dear mother, my own little chamber near yours, my bed that was so neat and white, and the kiss that every evening you came into my room and gave me before I fell asleep. I sobbed aloud. Little by little my tears ceased to flow. Numb with cold I slumbered till morning, the light of day reaching me through the airhole of my dungeon. I admit it, dear mother, and you will forgive my weakness, dejected by the sufferings of that first night, fearing I would be condemned to remain a long time in that dungeon, I resigned myself to agree to all that might be demanded of me. I wished above all to quit that gloomy place. I awaited impatiently the return of the nun, in order to make my submission to her. No one came, neither that day nor for about a week. I thought I would lose my senses. Every minute I shivered with fear. The very silence of that species of tomb inspired me with wild terrors. I moaned and called out to you, dear father and mother, as if you could hear me. I then fell down upon my couch of ashes, worn out. How sad was my soul!
"By little and little, however, I became accustomed to my prison, to my haircloth robe, to my bread, black andhard. Calmness returned to me. I said to myself: 'I am the victim of a wicked scheme. My parents have taught me it was our duty to sustain courageously the trials of life, and never to bow down before cowardice or slander. I shall perish in this convent, or leave it to return to my family.' I now waited for the nun, no longer in order to make my submission to her, but to announce to her my firm determination to resist her wishes. Vain expectations! For about another week no one came near. Instead of weakening, my determination grew more exalted in my solitude. I spent my days thinking of you. Often did the tension of my mind become so strong that I imagined I saw, I heard you. I then was no longer in that subterraneous dungeon; I was by your side, at our house. Every morning at awakening, I invoked heaven's blessing upon you. Then I would say to myself: 'Good morning, father, good morning, mother.' I would tell you all about my affliction and my sufferings; you encouraged me not to succumb in my cruel trial. Your wise and tender words comforted me. Then also my thoughts would wander to—
"I have hesitated to tell you the truth. But you taught me to abhor untruth and dissimulation. I shall continue. Only, dear mother, I know not whether, when you receive this letter, you will still be a prisoner and separated from father. If, on the contrary, you are again together, perhaps you should not let him know the passage you are about to read. Perhaps, and it is my ardent hope, father is ignorant of the circumstance that he whom I called brother—did—in a fit of insanity—
"My hand trembles at the bore recollection of that incident.
"During that horrible evening, before your unexpected return home, before I could understand the meaning of Hervé's words, he had himself enlightened me concerning the nature of the feelings that I entertained for Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. I have no doubt of it, at this hour. It was love I entertained for him. In the depth of my prison, during my nights of affliction, I could not prevent myself from thinking of you, without my thoughts running to him.
"That is the admission that a minute ago I hesitated to make. If that attachment is a guilty one, good mother, forgive me, it is involuntary.
"My thoughts wandered in my prison, beloved parents, no less to Brother St. Ernest-Martyr than to yourselves, resolved, as I was, to die here or rejoin you. Suddenly a cruel thought, that had not before occurred to me, flashed through my mind. To live by your side would be to live under the same roof with Hervé! I attributed—I still attribute the occurrences of that fatal night to a temporary derangement of his reason. You, no doubt, withheld the incident from father's knowledge. Hervé, once again returned to sanity, must have cursed his temporary aberration. His repentence must have moved you. One is indulgent towards crazy people! Nevertheless the mere thought of seeing him again caused me to shudder. The only hope that had hitherto sustained me, the hope of spending my life near you, as of yore, drooped its wings.It seemed to me impossible ever after to support the sight of Hervé. As I was a prey to these new and painful thoughts, one morning the door of my cell was opened and the turning-box attendant entered, followed by the other nuns.
"'Are you now more docile?' she asked. 'Do you now consent to receive the religious instruction necessary to take the vows of the Order of the Augustinians?'
"'No!' I screamed. 'You will gain nothing from me, either by persuasion, or force. I shall remain faithful to my belief!'
"At a sign from the nun two of the turning-box attendants fell upon me. Despite all my struggles, my tears, and my cries, they stripped me of my haircloth robe, the only clothing I had on; they held me fast; and their two other companions flagellated me mercilessly. Shame and pain—my shoulders and bosom ran blood under the lacerating lashing—wrung from me a cowardly entreaty. I promised absolute submission. My obedience appeased my torturers. I was taken back to my nun's cell. For a first proof of my submission I was to consent that very day to confess to one of the Augustinian monks under whose direction the convent stood, and one of whom was to be charged with imparting religious instruction to me. Towards noon I was conducted to the chapel. Oh, mother, what a surprise was in store for me! At the very first words that the monk, who occupied the confessional, addressed to me, I recognized the voice of St. Ernest-Martyr. I took myself for saved. I gave him my name; I informed him of our arrest; I conjured him to hunt up my father and my dear uncle Josephin, who surely must have remained at large, and notify them where you and I were held in confinement. Alas, my hopes were but short-lived! Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, himself an object of suspicion to the other monks and especially to the Abbot of the convent, was not allowed to go out. For several days he had been a prisoner in his own cell, which he left only to fulfil his ministry in the Augustinian Convent, which he reached through an underground passage that joined the two monasteries. I asked him whether it would be possible for him to have a letter reach my family. He doubted whether I would be allowed to write; furthermore, he did not, on his part, see any means by which my missive could reach its destination, such was the surveillance under which he himself was held. I narrated to him the recent ordeals and the trials that I underwent since my entrance in the convent. I heard him cry in the dark. I then entreated him to counsel me. He answered:
"'Sister, even if you experienced a decided religious vocation, and your parents gave their consent, even then I would urge you to reflect before pronouncing those eternal vows. But you have not that vocation, you are kept here against your will and without your parents' knowledge. What is to be done under such trying circumstances? To refuse to receive the veil, as you have hitherto done, is to expose yourself to fresh ill-treatment and severities, under which you would perish; to enter a religious Order, even if forced thereto, is to renounce forever all tender familyjoys. Before deciding, sister, endeavor to gain time. I shall help you by urging upon our Abbess the necessity of delay in order to complete your religious education. Your father and uncle have undoubtedly set on foot inquiries concerning your whereabouts. Keep up the hope that their efforts will be successful. Your father will move Robert Estienne, and he the Princess Marguerite to obtain your liberation. Rely upon my ardent wish to be useful to you. It is my duty to console you, and to sustain you in your cruel plight. I shall not fall short in my duty.'
"This, dear mother, was the advice of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. I followed it. In the meantime it remained impossible for him either to leave the convent, or write to you. He dared not trust such a secret to any of the other monks. They would in all likelihood have betrayed him to the Abbot.
"Alas, dear mother, yet another misfortune was to befall me; Brother St. Ernest-Martyr ceased to be my religious instructor. A few days after our first conference he was replaced by another Augustinian monk.
"So many afflictions threw me upon a sick bed. I became seriously ill. By the grief that the absence of St. Ernest-Martyr caused me I realized how much I loved him. Of this love he is ignorant; he does not even suspect it; he shall never know it. My heart breaks at the mere thought of what remains for me to tell you.
"The new Augustinian monk, who was charged to catechise me, inspired me with such instinctive repulsion that I could not conceal its manifestations. He complained tothe Mother Superior of my ill will towards him. The Abbess summoned me before her, and notified me that, whether instructed or not, I was to take the vow the day after the next, adding that I would then be allowed to see my family.
"I entreated the Superior to grant me one more day to reflect upon so grave a step. My entreaty was granted. I then reasoned as follows: To refuse to become a nun is to expose myself to renewed acts of violence and flagellations the very recollection of which render me purple with shame; it is also to renounce the only hope of seeing from time to time my beloved parents. On the other hand I feel that my love for Brother St. Ernest-Martyr will end but with my life; seeing I can not be his, to renounce him is to renounce the world, and all family joys. Why, then, not take the veil?
"I was alone, without an adviser, weakened with suffering, beset by nuns who alternately resorted to persuasion and threats. I despaired of ever finding the means of informing you of my fate, good mother. I resigned myself to take the vow—
"This morning the ceremony was celebrated. I was christened in religion with a sad name. I am called St. Frances-in-the-Tomb. To-night I am to spend in prayers in the chapel of the Virgin, according to the custom for maids who have taken the veil.
"My vows being pronounced, the Abbess caused me to be supplied with writing material—paper, pen and ink—promising me that this letter would be forwarded to my family.
"I am wrong for having taken so grave a step without your consent, good mother, and without the consent of father.
"I break off at this place. The convent clock strikes nine. I am to be taken to the chapel, where I am to watch all night. May God have mercy upon me.
"To-morrow, good mother, I shall finish this letter which I shall carry concealed in my corsage. I shall tell you then what were my thoughts.
"Until to-morrow, mother. I shall then close my confidences."
The sequel of this chronicle will instruct you, sons of Joel, concerning the events that led to Christian's coming into possession of the letter of the ill-starred Hena, as also of the following fragments of the diary written by Ernest Rennepont, in religion St. Ernest-Martyr, during the time that he also was held a prisoner under surveillance in the Augustinian Convent.
The sequel of this chronicle will instruct you, sons of Joel, concerning the events that led to Christian's coming into possession of the letter of the ill-starred Hena, as also of the following fragments of the diary written by Ernest Rennepont, in religion St. Ernest-Martyr, during the time that he also was held a prisoner under surveillance in the Augustinian Convent.
"Lord God! Have mercy upon me! I have just seen the young girl. I have confessed her in the convent of our Augustinian sisters. She is imprisoned there. They wish to compel her to take the vows. Poor victim!
"When I recognized her voice; when, in the shadow of the confessional, I perceived her angelic face, my heart thrilled with an insensate joy. I then trembled, and wept. Oh, Thou who seest to the bottom of the heart of man, Thou knowest, my God! my first thought was to leave the tribunal of penitence. I did not deem myself worthy of sitting in that place. But in her distress, the child had only me for her support. She thanked Thee, oh, my God! with such fervor for having sent me across her path, that my first impulse weakened, and I remained."
* * *
"To Thee, my divine Master, I make my confession. Yes; the first time I saw that young girl at the house of Mary La Catelle, as I was engaged in teaching the children at her school, I was struck by the beauty of Hena Lebrenn, her modesty, her candor, her grace! Withoutknowing it, Mary La Catelle rendered still more profound the deep impression her friend had made upon me, by recounting to me her virtues, her goodness, the truthfulness of her character. Yes; I confess it; since that day, and despite my reason that said to me: 'Such a love is insane;' despite my faith that whispered to me: 'Such a love is guilty;' despite all, the mad passion, the criminal passion gained every day a more powerful sway over my being. Our meeting to-day, by unveiling to me without reserve that ingenuous and charming soul, has forever riveted my chains. I love her passionately. I shall carry that love with me to the grave—"
* * *
"Impossible to leave my convent! I am the object of constant surveillance. Suspicion and hatred mount guard around me. How is Hena's family to be apprized of the constraint she is placed under? The days are passing away. I shudder at the thought of the Mother Superior compelling her to pronounce the vows, regardless of the observations I made to her that Hena's religious instruction is not yet sufficiently advanced. Were I sufficient of a wretch to listen to the voice of an execrable selfishness, I would rejoice at the thought that Hena, not being granted to me, would be none else's after her ordination as a nun. No! Were it in my power, I would restore the unfortunate girl to her family. I would open the gates of the convent—"
* * *
"A family!—a wife!—children!—the tenderest of sentiments,the dearest, the most sacred that can elevate the soul to the height of Thy providential purposes, O, heavenly Father!—a family—that ineffable sanctuary of domestic virtues—is forever barred to me! A curse upon those who founded the first convents!
"And who is it that bars me from that sanctuary? Is it Thy will, O, God of justice—Thou who gavest a companion to man? No! No! Neither the Word revealed by the prophets, nor the Word of Thy Son, our Redeemer, ever said to Thy priests: 'You shall remain without the pale of mankind; you are above, or below, the duties imposed by the sacred mission of assuring the happiness of a wife, raising children in the love and practice of right, and giving them the bread of the soul and the bread of the body!'
"The reformers, those heretics, they have remained faithful to Thy divine precepts. Their pastors are husbands and fathers."
* * *
"At this moment the noise and the songs of orgy penetrate to the very recesses of my cell. Mysteries of corruption and debauchery! The poor, ignorant people believe in the celibacy of the monks and the chastity of the nuns! Monks and nuns give themselves over to all manner of abominations!"
* * *
"Before ever I met Hena at the home of Mary La Catelle, Thou knowest, Oh, my God! I was seized with the justice of the reforms that were proclaimed in Thy nameby the Lutherans. I was in communion with them, if not in the communion of lips, at least in that of the soul. The adoration of images and saints, the arrogance of the clergy, auricular confession which places infamous priests in possession of the secrets of the domestic hearth, the redemption of sins and souls for a money price, the traffic in indulgences—so many iniquities, so many outrages against morality, rendered me indignant. My soul opened to the light."
* * *
"I have had a strange dream!
"Having become a pastor of the reformed religion, I had married Hena. We lived in a village, located in a smiling valley. I gave lessons to the lads. Hena gathered the girls around her. God blessed our union. Two beautiful children drew closer the bonds of our mutual tenderness. Oh, sacred family joys! Hena, my beloved wife!"
* * *
"Fool that I am! Instead of allowing my thoughts to dwell upon that dream, could I but tear it out of my memory. Until now I had, at least, found some bitter comfort in the word—Impossible. I am a monk. An insurmountable obstacle separates me from Hena. My grief fed upon the most mournful of thoughts. Astray in a labyrinth from which there was no exit, no ray of hope penetrated to the depth of my despair.
"But now, after that tempting dream, I find myself saying:
"'And yet I could be happy. I could embrace the Evangelical religion, become one of its pastors, remain guiltless of faithlessness to my vow of devoting myself to the service of God, and yet wed Hena. The reform ministers are not held to celibacy.'"
* * *
"Mercy, Oh, my God! However intense the hope, it has evaporated. I have fallen back into the very depth of despair. In order to wed Hena, she must love me! Can her heart ever have beaten for a man clad in a monk's frock?"
* * *
"Who made me a monk? Could I, at the age of thirteen, be endowed with judgment enough to decide upon my vocation, and understand the significance of monastic vows? Was it not in mere obedience to my father that I entered as a novice the Order of the Augustinian monks? That was my first step in religious life. Subsequently, partly through lassitude, partly through habit, partly through submission, I proceeded to consecrate myself to this gloomy and sterile life. I bowed before the paternal will. Thus goes the world! To my elder brother freedom to choose his career and a wife; to him the hereditary patrimony; to him family joys; to me the cloister; to me the vows that shackle me to celibacy and poverty! Such are the iniquities of the Catholics."
* * *
"A slow fever undermines and consumes me. I am only the shadow of my former self.
"The religious education that every day I impart toHena in the shadow of the confessional is torture to me. I have become so nervously sensitive that the sweet sound of my penitent's voice makes every fiber of my brain to twitch. Her breath, that occasionally reaches my face through the grating of the confessional, makes my forehead to be bathed in perspiration that burns, and then freezes my temples. I have not the courage to endure this torture any longer. I shall go crazy. To see, to feel near me the young girl the thought of whom fills my soul, and to be forever on guard, in order to restrain myself, to watch every single word I utter, its inflection, my hardly repressed sighs, the tears that her sorrows and my own draw from my eyes in order to conceal my secret from her! I am at the end of my strength. Fever and sleeplessness have used up my life. I can hardly drag myself from my cell to the church of the Augustinian monks. Call me to Your bosom, O Lord God! Have pity upon me. Mercy! Shorten my torments!"
* * *
"There is no longer any doubt. Hena will be forced to take the vows. Yesterday I went to the convent of the Augustinian sisters to inform the Mother Superior that my weakened health commanded me absolute rest, and I could not continue the religious education of the young novice.
"'Is Hena Lebrenn at last in a condition to take the veil?' she asked me.
"'Not yet,' I answered.
"'In that case,' replied the Mother Superior, 'the Lord will enlighten her with His grace when it shall please Him. It is His concern. Obedient to the orders I have from my ecclesiastical superiors, the girl must take the veil within a week. Some other of our Augustinian brothers will take charge of completing the education of the novice, somehow or other. It is the reverend Father Lefevre who sent her here. She has a brother who also was snatched from perdition. The task was easy with him. So far from refusing to take the vows, he requested to be allowed to enter the Order of the Cordeliers, and has been taken to their convent and placed near Fra Girard. The father and mother are devil-possessed heretics. A curse upon them.'
"And thus, in violation of all law and equity the two children have been wrested from their family, and will evermore be separated from it. I would give my life to inform Christian Lebrenn and his wife of the fate that is reserved for his daughter. Alas, there is no means of seeing them."
* * *
"To-morrow Hena takes the vows at the convent of the Augustinian sisters. I was informed of it by the monk who replaced me as her catechiser. My God! The poor girl is lost forever to her family.
"And yet a glimmer of hope remains. The surveillance at first exercised over me becomes less rigorous, now that my life is ebbing away, and I hardly leave my couch. If this evening, to-night, I can leave the convent, I shallnotify Monsieur Lebrenn of the imminent danger that threatens his daughter. Perchance, thanks to the influence of Robert Estienne, the Princess Marguerite may yet be able to obtain the freedom of Hena before she has taken the veil.
"My God! Vouchsafe my prayer and deliver me speedily of life. I shall ask to be buried in my frock, where I keep hidden these leaves, the only confidants of my love."
"The Black Grape" was the device roughly painted on the escutcheon of a tavern that served for rendezvous to all sorts of bandits, who at that season infested the city of Paris. Even the archers of the patrol held in awe the semi-underground cut-throats' resort. They never ventured into the tortuous and dark alley at about the middle of which the old sign of the Black Grape, well known by all the thieves, creaked and swung to the wind. Three men, seated at a table in one of the nooks of that haunt, were discussing some important project, judging from the mystery in which they wrapped their conversation. Pichrocholle, the Mauvais-Garçon, and his pal Grippe-Minaud, the Tire-Laine, who, several months before, had attended the sale of indulgences in St. Dominic's Church, were two of the interlocutors in the consultation they were for some time holding with Josephin, the Franc-Taupin. Strange transformation! The adventurer, once a man of imperturbable good nature, was unrecognizable. His now somber and even savage physiognomy revealed a rooted grief. He left his pot of wine untouched. What stronger evidence of his grief!
"St. Cadouin!" said Pichrocholle with a tone and gesture of devout invocation. "We are here alone. You can now tell us what you want of us, Josephin."
"Pichrocholle, I met you in the war—"
"Yes, I was an arquebusier in the company of Monsieur Monluc. I got tired of killing in battle, and without profit to myself, Italians, Spaniards, Swiss and Flemings, whom I did not know, and decided to kill for cash Frenchmen whom I did know. I became a Mauvais-Garçon. I now place my dagger and my sword at the service of whoever pays me. Tit for tat."
"’Tis but to be a soldier, only in another manner," explained Grippe-Minaud. "But this trade requires a certain courage that I do not possess. I prefer to tackle honest bourgeois on their way home at night without any other weapon than—their lanthorns."
"Pichrocholle," proceeded the Franc-Taupin, "I saved your life at the battle of Marignan. I extricated you from two lansquenets, who, but for my help, would have put you through a disagreeable quarter of an hour. I believe I bore myself as a true comrade."
"St. Cadouin! Do you take me for an ingrate? If you have any service to ask of me, speak freely without fear of a refusal."
"When I ran across you a few minutes ago, it occurred to me you were the man I needed—"
"Is it some enemy you wish to rid yourself of? All you have to do is to place me before him."
Josephin shook his head negatively, and pointed with hisfinger at his own long sword, that lay across the table before him. It would have been quite enough for such a contingency.
"You are yourself able to rid yourself of an enemy," replied the Mauvais-Garçon. "I know it. What, then, is the job?"
The Franc-Taupin proceeded with a tremulous voice while a tear rolled down from his eye:
"Pichrocholle, I had a sister—"
"How your voice trembles! You could not look any sadder. Pichrocholle, the pots are empty, and no money to fill them with!" said Grippe-Minaud.
"'Sdeath, my sister!" cried the Franc-Taupin in despair. "There is a void in my heart that nothing can fill!" and he hid his face in his hands.
"A void is useful when it is made in the purse of a bourgeois," commented Grippe-Minaud, while his companion remarked:
"Come, now, Josephin, you had a sister. Is it that you have lost her? Proceed with your story."
"She is dead!" murmured the Franc-Taupin, gulping down a sob; but recovering, he added: "I still have a niece—"
"A niece?" asked the Mauvais-Garçon. "Is it she we must help? Is she young and handsome—?"
The bandit stopped short at the fierce look that the Franc-Taupin shot at him. Presently he resumed:
"I knew you one time for a jollier fellow."
"I laugh no more," rejoined the Franc-Taupin with asinister smile. "My cheerfulness is gone! But let us come to the point. My sister died in prison. I succeeded at least in being allowed to see her before she closed her eyes, and to receive her last wishes. She leaves behind three children—a girl and two boys, but the elder does not count."
"How's that? Explain the mystery."
"I am coming to that. My sister's daughter was seized and taken to the convent of the Augustinian sisters, where she is now detained."
"St. Cadouin! What is there to complain about? To have a niece in a convent, is almost like having an angel on your side in paradise!" Saying which the Mauvais-Garçon crossed himself devoutly by carrying his thumb from his nose to his chin, and then across from one corner to the other of his mouth.
"Oh!" exclaimed Grippe-Minaud, "And I have neither sister, daughter nor niece in a convent! They would pray for the remission of my sins. I could then be unconcerned for the hereafter, like a fish in the water!"
"And their prayers would not cost you a denier!" added Pichrocholle with a sigh.
"Oh, if only my daughter Mariotte had not run away at the age of fourteen with a jail-bird, she would now be in a convent, praying for her good father, the Tire-Laine! By the confession! That was the dream of my life," whereupon the thief crossed himself as the Mauvais-Garçon had done.
The words of the two bandits suited the Franc-Taupin.They were fresh proofs of the mixture of superstition and crime that marked the bandits' lives. Their fanaticism squared with his own projects. He proceeded with his story, to which his two comrades listened attentively:
"My niece has no religious vocation. She was taken to the convent, and is held there by force. She must come out. Will you help me to carry her off?'
"St. Cadouin!" cried the Mauvais-Garçon, terror stricken, and crossing himself anew. "That would be sacrilege!"
"To violate a holy place!" came from Grippe-Minaud, who grew pale and crossed himself like Pichrocholle. "By the confession! My hair stands on end at the bare thought of such a thing!"
Dumb and stupefied, the two brigands looked at each other with dilated eyes. The Franc-Taupin seemed in no wise disconcerted by their scruples. After a moment of silence he proceeded:
"Mauvais-Garçons and Tire-Laines are good Catholics, I know. Therefore, be easy, my devout friends, I have the power to absolve you."
"Are you going to make us believe you are an Apostolic Commissioner?"
"What does it matter, provided I guarantee to you a plenary indulgence? Eh, comrades!"
"You—you—Josephin? You are mocking us! And yet you claim you have lost your taste for mirth!"
Separated from the two thieves by the full length of the table, the Franc-Taupin placed his sword between his legs,planted his bare dagger close before him, and then drew a parchment out of the pocket of his spacious hose. It was Hervé's letter of absolution, which the Franc-Taupin had picked up from the threshold of his sister's house when the Lebrenn family was arrested. He unfolded the apostolic schedule; and holding it open in plain view of both the brigands, he said to them:
"Look and read—you can read."
"A letter of absolution!" exclaimed the Mauvais-Garçon and the Tire-Laine, with eyes that glistened with greed as they carefully ran over the parchment. "It bears the seals, the signatures—there is nothing lacking!"
"I saw day before yesterday a schedule like that in the hands of the Count of St. Mexin, who paid me two ducats to dispatch a certain fat advocate, a husband who stands in the way of the love affairs of the advocatess with the young seigneur," said the Mauvais-Garçon.
"By the confession!" cried Grippe-Minaud, re-crossing himself. "The letter is complete! It gives remission even forreserved cases. Thanks to this absolution, one can do anything! Anything, without danger to his soul!"
After reading and contemplating with ecstasies the apostolic schedule, the two bandits exchanged a rapid and meaning look, which, however, did not escape the Franc-Taupin, thoroughly on his guard as he was. He drew back quickly, rose from his seat, dashed the precious parchment back into his pocket, took a few steps away from the table, and standing erect, his right foot forward, his swordin one hand, his dagger in the other, thus addressed the two desperadoes:
"By the bowels of St. Quenet, my lads! I knew you for too good a brace of Catholics not to wish to stab me to death in order to get possession of this absolving schedule, which remits all past, present and future crimes. Come on, my dare-devils, I have only one eye left, but it is a good one!"
"You are crazy! It is not right to mistrust an old friend that way," expostulated Pichrocholle. "You misunderstood our intentions."
"We only wanted to examine more closely that blessed and priceless letter," added the Tire-Laine. "By the confession! Happy man that you are to possess such a treasure!" and he crossed himself. "Saints of paradise, but grant me such a windfall, and I shall burn twenty wax candles come Candlemas!"
"It depends upon you whether you shall own this treasure or not," proceeded the adventurer. "I shall give you this letter of absolution, if you help me, to-night, to carry off my niece from the convent of the Augustinian sisters. By virtue of this apostolic schedule, you will be absolved of all your sins—past, present and future, and of this night's sacrilege for good measure. Thenceforth, you will be privileged fairly to swim in crime, without concern for your souls, as Pichrocholle just said. Paradise will then be guaranteed to you!"
"But," remarked the Mauvais-Garçon, shaking his head, "this letter absolves only one Christian—we are two."
"The job being done, you will cast dice for the schedule," Josephin answered readily. "There will be one to lose and one to gain. The chances are equal for you both."
The two bandits consulted each other with their eyes. Pichrocholle spoke up:
"But how do you come into possession of that letter? Those absolutions are the most expensive. St. Cadouin! The least that they cost, I hear, is twenty-five gold crowns."
"It is none of your business from whom I hold the schedule. 'Sdeath, my sister! All the gold in the world will not pay for the tears that piece of parchment has caused to flow!" answered the Franc-Taupin, whose visage expressed a profound grief as he thought of the revelations Bridget made to him about Hervé.
Recovering his composure the adventurer added:
"Will you, yes or no, both of you, lend me a strong hand to-night, in order to carry off my niece from the convent of the Augustinian sisters, and for another expedition? It is a double game we have to play."
"St. Cadouin! We are to make two strokes. You never told us about that—"
"The second expedition is but child's play. To seize a little casket."
"What does the casket contain?" queried the Tire-Laine, all interest.
"Only papers," answered the Franc-Taupin, "besides a few trinkets of no value. Moreover, seeing you are scrupulous Catholics, I shall add, for the sake of the peace of your souls, that the casket which I wish to recover, wasstolen from my brother-in-law. You will be aiding a restitution."
"Josephin, you are trying to deceive us!" remarked the Mauvais-Garçon. "People do not attach so much importance to a bunch of papers and worthless trinkets."
"When the casket is in our possession you may open it—if there be any valuables in it, they shall be yours."
"There is nothing to say to that," rejoined Pichrocholle, looking at the Tire-Laine. "That's fair, eh? We shall accept the proposition."
"Quite fair," returned the latter. "But let us proceed in order. The abduction of the nun—by the navel of the Pope! I shiver at the bare thought. Should the cast of the dice not give me the letter of absolution, I remain guilty of a sacrilege!"
"That is your risk," answered the Franc-Taupin; "but if you gain the indulgence—there you are, my Catholic brother, safe for all eternity, whatever crimes you may commit."
"By the limbs of Satan! I know that well enough! It is that very thing that lures me."
"And me too," put in the other brigand. "But how are we to manage things in order to enter the convent?"
"I shall explain my plan to you. My brother-in-law is in hiding for fear of being arrested. My niece, who was taken to the Augustinian Convent, was compelled to take the vows to-day."
"How do you know that?"
"I had gone, as latterly I often get into the humor ofdoing, and planted myself before my sister's house—and dreamed."
"To what end?"
"In order to contemplate that poor house, deserted to-day, and where, every time I returned from the country, Bridget, her husband and her children gave me a pleasant reception. You devout fellows talk of paradise. That house was a paradise to me. So that, even to-day, I roamed into the neighborhood as an erring soul, my eyes fastened upon that closed window where I had so often seen the dear faces of my sister and her daughter smiling upon me when I knocked at their door—"
The expression on the face, the tone of the voice of the Franc-Taupin, touched even the two bandits, hardened men though they were. Josephin smothered a sob and proceeded:
"As I was saying a short while ago, I was roaming around the house when I saw a monk approaching me. Oh, a good monk! So pale, so worn that I had trouble to recognize him. But he, although he had met me only once, recognized me by my port and by the plaster on my eye. He asked me whether he could have a speedy word with my sister, or my brother-in-law. 'My sister is dead, and my brother-in-law is in hiding,' I answered the monk. He thereupon informed me that my niece was locked up in the convent of the Augustinian sisters, where he, an Augustinian monk, was her confessor; that, himself subjected several months to a rigorous sequestration, he had only just succeeded in coming out, seeing that the surveillanceunder which he was held had somewhat begun to relax. Poor monk, he looked so wan, so emaciated, so feeble that he could hardly keep himself on his feet. Uninformed concerning the misfortunes of our family, his errand was to impart to the parents of my niece what he knew about her. He ran the risk, in the event of his outing being discovered, of being pursued and punished. I took him to the place where my brother-in-law has found a safe retreat. On the way thither I learned the following from the monk: My niece took the veil to-day. According to the custom in such cases, she is to pass the night alone in prayer in the oratory of the Virgin, which is separated from the church of the convent by an enclosure of the cloister. Now, attention, my lads, to the directions that the monk gave me. The walls of the court-yard of the chapel run along St. Benoit's Alley. Just before sunset, I went over the place and examined the walls. They are not very high. We can easily scale them, while one of us will keep watch on the outside."
"That shall be I!" broke in Grippe-Minaud nervously. "That post for me! I have the eye of a lynx and the ear of a mole!"
"You shall be the watcher. Pichrocholle and I shall scale the wall. The monk will be waiting for me near the chapel, ready to aid us should anyone attempt to oppose my niece's abduction. I shall find her in the oratory; she will follow me; we shall force open one of the garden gates; and before dawn I shall have the daughter with her father, who is in perfect safety. Immediately after, itwill then be just early dawn, we shall undertake the second expedition."
"The casket that we are to take?"
"Nothing easier. We shall go, all three, to Montaigu College, and shall ask the porter for the number of Abbot Lefevre's chamber. He is the thief of the casket."
"Horns of Moses!" cried Grippe-Minaud crossing himself. "An Abbot! To raise our hands against another anointed of the Lord!"
"Two sacrileges in one day!" added the Mauvais-Garçon shaking his head thoughtfully. "That weighs heavy on one's conscience."
"What about the letter of absolution!" interjected the Franc-Taupin impatiently. "By the devil, whose frying pan you are afraid of, my precious Catholics! Have you faith—yes or no?"
"That's so," responded Pichrocholle, "there is the schedule of absolution. It covers us! Thanks to its beneficent virtue, one of us shall be white as the inside of a snowball."
"Accordingly," the Franc-Taupin proceeded, "we shall ask for Abbot Lefevre, under the pretext of some urgent matter that we must communicate to him; we go up to his room; we knock at the door. Our man will still be in bed. We throw ourselves upon him. You two bind and gag him. I shall look for the casket in question—and shall find it. I am certain of that. We then tie our Abbot to the bed, keeping him gagged all the while, lest he scream and givethe alarm. We close the door after us—and we make tracks for the nearest place of safety."
"Oh, that would be the merest child's play, provided no priest were concerned," broke in the Tire-Laine; "besides the abduction of your niece, the violation of a sanctuary!"
"Yesterday I despatched my seventh man," put in the Mauvais-Garçon. "Accordingly, my conscience is not very well at ease, because, to obtain absolution for a murder, I would have to pay more than the murder fetches me. But a lay murder is but a peccadillo beside a sacrilege!—And then, if after the expedition that you propose to us, the dice should fail to give me the apostolic schedule? What then! St. Cadouin! I would dream only of the eternal flames ever after."
"That is your risk," again replied Josephin imperturbably. "The hour approaches. Have you decided? Is it yes? Is it no? Must I look for assistance elsewhere?"
"When will you deliver the letter to us?"
"Just as soon as my niece is safely with her father, and the casket is in my hands. Agreed?"
"And if you deceive us? If after the expeditions have been successfully carried out, you refuse to deliver the letter to us?"
"By the bowels of St. Quenet! And if, taking advantage of a moment when I may not be on my guard, you should stab me to-night, that you may seize the letter before rendering me the services which I expect of you? The risks are equal, and compensate each other. Enough of words!"
"Oh, Josephin, such a suspicion against me—me your old comrade in arms!"
"By the confession! To take us—us who have drunk out of the same pot, for capable of so unworthy an action!"
"God's blood! Night draws near. We shall need some time to prepare for the escalade," ejaculated the Franc-Taupin. "For the last time—yes or no?"
The two bandits consulted each other for a moment with their eyes. At the end of the consultation Pichrocholle reached out his hand to the Franc-Taupin, saying:
"Upon the word of a Mauvais-Garçon, and by the salvation of my soul—'tis done! You can count with me to the death."
"Upon the word of a Tire-Laine, and by the salvation of my soul—'tis done! You may dispose of me."
"To work!" ordered the Franc-Taupin.
Josephin left the tavern of the Black Grape accompanied by the two bandits.
The cottage or country-house, that Robert Estienne owned near St. Ouen, on the St. Denis road, was located in a secluded spot, and at a considerable distance from the village. The byroad which led to the entrance of the residence ran upon a gate of grated iron near a little lodge occupied by the gardener and his wife. The principal dwelling rose in the center of a garden enclosed by a wall. The day after that on which the Franc-Taupin, the Mauvais-Garçon and the Tire-Laine held their conference at the tavern of the Black Grape, Michael, Robert Estienne's gardener, having returned from the field late in the afternoon, and being not a little out of sorts at not finding his wife Alison at their home, the key of which she had carried away with her, was grumbling, storming and blowing upon his fingers numb with the December chill. Finally his wife, no doubt returning from the village, hove in sight, and wended her way towards the gate.
"Where the devil did you go to?" Michael called out to Alison as he saw her from a distance. "Could you not at least have left the key in the door? The devil take those forgetful women!"
"I went—to confession," answered the gardener's wife avoiding her husband's eyes, and pushing open the gate. "I took the key with me because you were afield."
"To confession!—To confession!" replied Michael with a growl. "And I was freezing to death."
"All the same I must see to my salvation. You sent me this morning with a letter to our master. The curate was good enough to wait for me at the confessional after dinner. I availed myself of his kindness."
"Very well. But, may the devil take it! I wish you would try to gain paradise without exposing me to be frozen to death."
The couple had barely stepped into the lodge when Michael stopped to listen in the direction of the gate and said, surprisedly:
"I hear the gallop of a horse!"
The brave Michael stepped out again, looked through the grating of the gate, recognized Robert Estienne, and called out:
"Alison, come quick; it is our master!"
Saying this the gardener threw open the gate to Robert Estienne. The latter alighted from his horse, and giving the reins to his servant said:
"Good evening, Michael. Any news?"
"Oh, monsieur, many things—"
"Does my guest run any danger? Has any indiscretion been committed?"
"No, thanks to God, monsieur. You may be easy on that score. You can rely upon my wife as upon myself.No one suspects at the village that there is anyone hiding at the house."
"What, then, has happened, since my last call? Alison brought me this morning a note from the friend to whom I am giving asylum. But although the note urged my coming here, it indicated nothing serious."
"No doubt the person who is here, monsieur, reserves for his own telling the news that he is no longer alone at the house."
"How is that?"
"Day before yesterday, the tall one-eyed fellow who comes here from time to time, and always at night, called in broad daylight, mounted upon a little cart, drawn by a donkey and filled with straw. He told me to watch the cart, and he went in search of your guest. The two came out together, and out of the straw in the cart they pulled—a monk!"
"A monk, say you!—A monk!"
"Yes, monsieur, a young monk of the Order of Saint Augustine, who looked as if he had not another hour to live, so pale and weak was he."
"And what has become of him?"
"He remained here, and your guest said to me: 'Michael, I beg you to keep the arrival of the monk an absolute secret. I shall inform Monsieur Estienne of the occurrence. Your master will approve the measures I have taken.'"
"Did you follow his recommendation?"
"Yes, monsieur, but that is not all. Last night the big one-eyed fellow came back just before dawn. He was onhorseback, and behind him, wrapped in a cloak on the crupper of his mount, he brought—a nun! I went immediately to notify your guest. He came out running, and almost fainted away at the sight of the nun. Bathed in tears he returned with her into the house, while the big one-eyed man rode off at a gallop. It was daylight by that time. Finally, towards noon to-day, the big one-eyed man returned once more, but this time clad in a peasant's blouse and cap. He brought a little casket to your guest, and then went off—"
Astounded at what the gardener was telling him, Robert Estienne walked up to the house, where he rapped in the nature of a signal—two short raps and then, after a short pause, a third. Instantly Christian opened the door.
"My friend, what is the matter? What has happened?" cried Robert Estienne, struck by the profound change in the appearance of the artisan, who threw himself into the arms of his patron, murmuring between half-smothered sobs:
"My daughter!—My daughter!"
Robert Estienne returned Christian's convulsive embrace, and under the impression that some irreparable misfortune had happened, he said in sympathetic accents:
"Courage, my friend! Courage!"
"She has been found!" cried Christian. The light of unspeakable joy shone in his eyes. "My child has been restored to me! She is here! She is with me!"
"True?" asked Robert Estienne, and recalling the gardener's words he added: "Was she the nun?"
"It is Hena herself! But come, come, monsieur; my heart overflows with joy. My head swims. Oh, never have I needed your wise counsel as much as now! What am I now to do?"
Christian and his patron had all this while remained at the entrance of the vestibule. They walked into a contiguous apartment.
"For heaven's sake, my dear Christian, be calm," remarked Robert Estienne. "Let me know what has happened. Needless to add that my advice and friendship are at your service."
Recovering his composure, and wiping with the back of his hand the tears that inundated his face, the artisan proceeded to explain:
"You are aware of the arrest of my wife, my daughter and my eldest son at our house. I would also have been arrested had I been found at home. My brother-in-law, who lingered in the neighborhood of my house, notified me of the danger I ran, and made me retrace my steps. Thanks to Josephin and yourself I found a safe refuge, first in Paris itself, and then here, in this retreat which seemed to you to offer greater security."
"Did I not by all that but repay a debt of gratitude? Your hospitality to John Calvin is probably the principal cause of the persecution that you and your family have been the victims of. Despite my pressing solicitations, Princess Marguerite, whose influence alone has hitherto protected me against my enemies, declined to attempt aught in your behalf. Cardinal Duprat said to her:'Madam, the man in whom you are interesting yourself is one of the bitterest enemies of the King and the Church. If we succeed in laying hands upon that Christian Lebrenn he shall not escape the gallows, which he has long deserved!' Such set animosity towards you, a workingman and obscure artisan, passes my comprehension."
"I now know the cause of that bitter animosity, Monsieur Estienne. Before proceeding with my narrative, the revelation is due to you. It may have its bearings upon the advice that I expect from you."
Christian opened the casket that contained the chronicles of his family, brought to him that very noon by the Franc-Taupin. He took from the casket a scroll of paper and placed it in Robert Estienne's hand, saying:
"Kindly read this, monsieur. The manuscripts to which this note refers are the family chronicles that I have occasionally spoken of to you."
Robert Estienne took the note and read: