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
