The Pocket Bible or Christian the Printer Part 19

"Do you love that monk?"

"Certainly--just as one loves all that is good and just. I know the generous actions of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. You, yourself, only a few days ago, told me a very touching deed done by him."

"Do you constantly think of the monk?"

"Constantly, no. But this very evening I was saying to mother that I was astonished I thought so frequently of him."

"Hena, suppose our parents thought of marrying you, and that the young monk, instead of being a clergyman, was free, could become your husband and loved you--would you wed him?"

"What a crazy supposition!"

"Let us suppose all I have said--that he is not a monk and loves you; if our parents gave their consent to the marriage, would you accept that man for your husband?"

"Dear brother, you are putting questions to me--"

"You would wed him with joy," Herve broke in with hollow voice, fixing upon his sister a jealous and enraged eye that escaped her, seeing the embroidery on which she was engaged helped her conceal the embarra.s.sment that the singular interrogatory to which she was being subjected threw her into. Nevertheless, the girl's natural frankness regained the upper hand, and without raising her eyes to her brother, Hena answered:

"Why should I not consent to wed an honorable man, if our parents approved the marriage?"

"Accordingly, you love the monk! Yes, you love him pa.s.sionately! The thought of him obsesses you. Your grief and the sorrow that day before yesterday you felt when he was carried wounded into the house, the tears I surprised in your eyes--all these are so many symptoms of your love for him!"

"Herve, I know not why, but your words alarm me, they disconcert me, they freeze my heart, they make me feel like weeping. I did not feel that way this evening when I conversed with mother about Brother St.

Ernest-Martyr. Besides, your face looks gloomy, almost enraged."

"I hate that monk to death!"

"My G.o.d! What has he done to you?"

"What has he done to me?" repeated Herve. "You love him! That is his crime!"

"Brother!" cried Hena, rising from her work to throw herself on the neck of her brother and holding him in a tight embrace. "Utter not such words! You make me wretched!"

Convulsed with despair, Herve pressed his sister pa.s.sionately to his breast and covered her forehead and hair with kisses, while Hena, innocently responding to his caresses, whispered with gentle emotion:

"Good brother, you are no longer angry, are you? If you only knew my alarm at seeing you look so wicked!"

A heavy knock resounded at the street door, followed immediately by the sonorous and merry voice of the Franc-Taupin singing his favorite song:

"A Franc-Taupin had an ash-tree bow, All eaten with worms, and all knotted its cord; _Derideron, vignette on vignon!! Derideron!_"

A tremor ran through Herve. Quickly recalling himself, he ran to the cas.e.m.e.nt, opened it, and leaning forward, cried out: "Good evening, uncle!"

"Dear nephew, I am back from St. Denis. I did not wish to return to Paris without telling you all good-day!"

"Oh, dear uncle, a great misfortune has happened! La Catelle is dying.

She sent for mother, who left at once. I could not accompany her, being obliged to remain here with Hena in father's absence. We feel uneasy at the thought that mother may have to come back all alone on this dark night."

"All alone! By the bowels of St. Quenet, of what earthly use am I, if not to protect my sister!" replied Josephin. "I shall start on a run to La Catelle's, and see your mother home. Be not uneasy, my lad. When I return I shall embrace you and your sister, if you are not yet in bed."

The Franc-Taupin hastened away. Herve shut the window, and returned in a state of great excitement to Hena, who inquired:

"Why did you induce uncle to go to-night after mother? She is to stay all night at La Catelle's. Why do you not answer me? Why is your face so lowering? My G.o.d! What ails you? Brother, brother, do not look upon me with such eyes! I am trembling all over."

"Hena, I love you--I love you carnally!"

"I--do not comprehend--what--you say. I do not understand your words.

You now frighten me. Your eyes are bloodshot."

"The kind of love you feel for that monk--that love I feel for you! I love you with a pa.s.sionate desire."

"Herve, you are out of your mind. You do not know what you say!"

"I must possess you!"

"Good G.o.d, am I also going crazy? Do my eyes--do my ears deceive me?"

"Hena--you are beautiful! Sister, I adore you--"

"Do not touch me! Mercy! Herve, brother, you are demented! Recognize me--it is I--Hena--your own sister--it is I who am here before you--on my knees."

"Come, come into my arms!"

"Help! Help! Mother! Father!"

"Mother is far away--father also. We are alone--in the dark--and I have received absolution! You shall be mine, will ye nil ye!"

The monster, intent upon accomplis.h.i.+ng his felony in obscurity, knocked down the lamp with his fist, threw himself upon Hena, and gripped her in his arms. The girl slipped away from him, reached the staircase that led to the lower floor, and bounded down. Herve rushed after her, and seized her as she was about to clear the lowest steps. The distracted child called for help. Holding her with one hand, her brother tried to gag her with the other, lest her cries be heard by the neighbors. Suddenly the street door was thrown open, flooding the room with moonlight, and disclosing Bridget on the threshold. Thunderstruck, the mother perceived her daughter struggling in the arms of her brother, and still, though in a smothered voice, crying: "Help! Help!" The wretch, now rendered furious at the danger of his victim's escaping him, and dizzy with the vertigo of crime, did not at first recognize Bridget. He flung Hena behind him, and seizing a heavy iron coal-rake from the fireplace, was about to use it for a club, not even recoiling before murder in order to free himself from an importunate witness. Already the dangerous weapon was raised when, by the light of the moon, the incestuous lad discovered the features of his mother.

"Save yourself, mother," cried Hena between her sobs; "he is gone crazy; he will kill you. Only your timely help saved me from his violent a.s.sault."

"Infamous boy!" cried the mother. "That, then, was your purpose in removing me from the house. G.o.d willed that half way to La Catelle's I met her brother-in-law--"

"Be gone!" thundered back Herve, a prey to uncontrollable delirium; and raising the iron coal-rake which he had lowered under the first impulse of surprise at the sight of his mother, he staggered towards Bridget yelling: "Be gone!"

"Matricide! Dare you raise that iron bar against me--your mother?"

"All my crimes are absolved in advance! Incest--parricide--all are absolved! Be gone, or I kill you!"

Hardly were these appalling words uttered, when the sound of numerous and rapidly approaching steps penetrated into the apartment through the door that Bridget had left open. Almost immediately a troop of patrolling archers, under the command of a sergeant-at-arms, and led by a man in a black frock with the cowl drawn over his head, halted and drew themselves up before the house of Christian. The Franc-Taupin had met them a short distance from the Exchange Bridge. A few words, exchanged among the soldiers, notified him of the errand they were on.

Alarmed at what he overheard, he had quickly retraced his steps and followed them at a distance. The sergeant in command stepped in at the very moment that Herve uttered the last menace to his mother.

"Does Christian Lebrenn dwell here?" asked the soldier. "Answer quickly."

Ready to sink distracted, Bridget was not at first able to articulate a word. Hena gathered strength to rise from the floor where Herve had flung her, and ran to Bridget, into whose arms she threw herself. Herve dropped at his feet the iron implement he had armed himself with, and remained motionless, savage of mien, his arms crossed over his breast.

The man whose face was hidden by the cowl of his black frock--that man was John Lefevre, the disciple of Ignatius Loyola--whispered a few words in the ear of the sergeant. The latter again addressed Bridget, now in still more peremptory tones:

"Is this the dwelling of Christian Lebrenn, a typesetter by trade?"

"Yes," answered Bridget, and greatly alarmed by the visit of the soldiers, she added: "My husband is not at home. He will not be back until late."