The Pocket Bible; or, Christian the Printer: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century

"I am a valet, and have come to accuse myself of acting as go-between in the amours of my master, and, besides, of having robbed him."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'to carry letters or presents to the concubine of your master, even to assist him in scaling her window by holding the ladder, are permissible and indifferent matters, because, in your quality of servant, it is not your will that you obey, but the will of another.¹⁷ As to the thefts that you have committed, it is clear that if, driven by necessity, you have been forced to accept wages that are too small, you are justified in recouping your legitimate salary in some other way.'"¹⁸

"I am a swordsman. I accuse myself before the penitential tribunal of having fought a duel."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'if in fighting you yielded, not to a homicidal impulse, but to the legitimate call to avenge your honor, you have committed no sin.'"¹⁹

"I am a coward. I rid myself of my enemy by murdering him from ambush. I come to make the admission to you, my confessor, and to ask absolution."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'if you committed the murder, not for the sake of the murder itself, but in order to escape the dangers which your enemy might have thrown you into, in that case you have not sinned at all. In such cases it is legitimate to kill one's enemy in the absence of witnesses.'"²⁰

"I am a judge. I accuse myself of having rendered a decision in favor of one of the litigants, in consideration of a present made to me by him."

"'Where is the wrong in that, my son?' I would ask. 'In consideration of a present you rendered a decision favorable to the giver of the gift. Could you not, by virtue of your own will, have favored whom you pleased? You stand in no need of absolution.'"²¹

"I am a usurer. I accuse myself of having frequently derived large profits from my money. Have I sinned according to the law of the Church?"

"'My son,' I would answer, 'this is the way you should in future conduct yourself in such affairs: Someone asks a loan of you. You will answer: "I have no money to loan, but I have some ready to be honestly invested. If you will guarantee to reimburse me my capital, and, besides that, to pay me a certain profit, I shall entrust the sum in your hands so that you may turn it to use. But I shall not loan it to you."²² For the rest, my son, you have not sinned, if, however large the interest you may have received from your money, the same was looked upon by you simply as a token of gratitude, and not a condition for the loan.²³ Go in peace, my son.'"

"I am a bankrupt. I accuse myself of having concealed a considerable sum from the knowledge of my creditors."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'the sin is grave if you retained the sum out of base cupidity. But if your purpose was merely to insure to yourself and your family a comfortable existence, even some little luxury, you are absolved.'"²⁴

"I am a woman. I accuse myself of having committed adultery, and of having in that way obtained considerable wealth from my paramour. May I enjoy that wealth with an easy conscience?"

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'the wealth acquired through gallantry and adultery has, it is true, an illegitimate source. Nevertheless, its possession may be considered legitimate, seeing that no human or divine law pronounces against such possession.'"²⁵

"I have stolen a large sum. I accuse myself of the theft, and ask for your absolution."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'it is a crime to steal, unless one is driven thereto by extreme necessity; and even less so if grave reasons prompt the act.'"²⁶

"I am rich, but I give alms sparingly, if at all. I accuse myself."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'charity towards our fellows is a Christian duty. Nevertheless, if superfluity is needed by you, you commit no sin by not depriving yourself of those things which, in your eyes, are necessaries.²⁷ I absolve you.'"

"I coveted a certain inheritance. I accuse myself of having poisoned the man from whom I was to inherit. May I retain the property?"

"'My son,' I would answer, 'the possession of property, acquired by unworthy means, and even through manslaughter, is legitimate, so far as possession is concerned. You may retain the property.'"²⁸

"I am summoned to take an oath. My conscience forbids, my interest orders me to commit perjury. You are my confessor. I wish to consult you on the matter."

"'You can, my son, reconcile your interest and your conscience. This way – I suppose you will be asked: "Do you swear you did not commit such and such an act?" You will answer aloud: "I swear before God and man that I have not committed that act," and then you add mentally: "On such and such a day." Or, you are asked: "Do you swear you will never do such or such a thing?" You will answer: "I swear," and mentally you add: "Unless I change my mind; in which case I shall do the thing."'"²⁹

"I am an unmarried woman. I have yielded to a seducer. I fear the anger and reproaches of my family."

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'take courage. A woman of your age is free to dispose of her body and herself. Have all the lovers you please. I absolve you.'"³⁰

"I am a woman, passionately addicted to gambling. I accuse myself of having purloined some moneys from my husband, in order to repay my losses at the gaming table."

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'seeing that, between man and wife, everything is, or ought to be, in common, you have not sinned by drawing from the common purse.³¹ You may continue to do so. I absolve you.'"

"I am a woman. I love ornaments. I accuse myself."

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'if you ornament yourself without impure intentions, and only in order to satisfy your natural taste for ornamentation, you do not sin.'"³²

"I accuse myself of having seduced the wife of my best friend."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'let us distinguish: If you treacherously seduced the woman just because she was the wife of your best friend, then you have sinned. But if you seduced her, as you might have done any other woman, you have not outraged friendship.³³ It is a natural thing to desire the possession of a handsome woman. You have not sinned. There is no occasion for absolution.'"

"Well done!" exclaimed Loyola. "But I notice you grant absolution for all that human morality and the Fathers of the Church condemn."

"Master, you said: 'Absolved penitents will never complain.'"

"What is the object of the complaisance of your doctrines in all circumstances?"

"At this season an incurable corruption reigns among mankind. Rigor would estrange them from us. Our tolerance for their vices is calculated to deliver the penitents to us, body and soul. By leaving to us the direction of their souls, this corrupt generation will later relinquish to us the absolute education of their children. We will then raise those generations as may be suitable, by taking them in charge from the cradle to the grave; by molding them; by petrifying them in such manner that, their appetites being satisfied, and their minds for all time delivered from the temptation of those three infernal rebels – Reason, Dignity and Freedom – those generations will bless their sweet servitude, and will be to us, master, what we are to you – servile slaves, body and soul, mere corpses!"

"Among the obstacles that our work will, or may encounter, you mentioned the papacy."

"Yes, master, because the elections of the sacred college may call to the pontifical throne Popes that are weak, stupid or vicious."

"What is the remedy at such a juncture?"

"To organize, outside of the papacy, of the college of cardinals, of the episcopacy, of the regular clergy and of the religious Orders, a society to whose members it shall be strictly forbidden ever to be elected Pope, or to accept any Catholic office, however high or however low the office may be. Thus this society will ever preserve its independence of action for or against the Church, free to oppose or uphold its Chief."

"What shall be the organization of that redoubtable society?"

"A General, elected by its own members, shall have sovereign direction over it."

"What pledge are its members to take towards him?"

"Dumb, blind and servile obedience."

"What are they to be in his hands?"

"That which we are in yours, O, master! Instruments as docile as the cane in the hand of the man who leans upon it."

"What will be the theater of the society's work?"

"The whole world."

"Into what parts will it divide the universe?"

"Into provinces – the province of France, the province of Spain, the province of Germany, the province of England, the province of India, the province of Asia, and others. Each will be under the government of a 'provincial,' appointed by the General of the society."

"The society being organized, what name is it to assume?"

"The name of the Society of Jesus."

"In what manner is the Society of Jesus to become a counterpoise to the papacy, and, if need be, dominate the papacy itself, should the latter swerve from the route it should pursue in order to insure the absolute government of the nations of the world to the Catholic Church?"

"Independent of the established Church, from whom it neither expects nor demands aught – neither the purple, nor the cross, nor benefices – the Society of Jesus, thanks to its accommodating and tolerant doctrines, will speedily conquer the empire of the human conscience. It will be the confessor of Kings and lackeys, of the mendicant monk and the cardinal, of the courtesan and the princess, the female bourgeois and her cook, of the concubine and the empress. The concert of this immense clientage, acting as one man under the breath of the Society of Jesus, and inspired by its General, will insure to him such a power that, at a given moment, he will be able to dictate his orders to the papacy, threatening to unchain against it all the consciences and arms over which he disposes. The General will be more powerful than the Pope himself."

"Besides its action upon the conscience, will the Society of Jesus dispose over any other and secondary levers?"

"Yes, master, and very effective ones. Whosoever, whether lay or clerical, poor or rich, woman or man, great or small, will blindly surrender his soul to the direction of the Society of Jesus, will always and everywhere, and against whomsoever, be sustained, protected, favored, defended and held scathless by the Society and its adherents. The penitent of a Jesuit will see the horizon of his most ardent hopes open before him; the path to honors and wealth will be smoothed before his feet; a tutelary mantle will cover his defects, his errors and his crimes; his enemies will be the Society's enemies; it will pursue them, track them, overtake them and smite them, whoever and wherever they may be, and with all available means. Thus the penitent of a Jesuit may aspire to anything. To incur his resentment will be a dread ordeal."

"Accordingly, you have faith in the accomplishment of our work?"

"An absolute faith."

"From whom do you derive that faith?"

"From you, master; from you, Ignatius Loyola, whose breath inspires us; from you, our master, him through whom we live."

"The work is immense – to dominate the world! And yet there are only seven of us."

"Master, when you command, we are legion."

"Seven – only seven, my sons – without other power than our faith in our work."

"Master, faith removes mountains. Command."

"Oh, my brave disciples!" exclaimed Ignatius Loyola rising and supporting himself with his staff. "What joy it is to me to have thus imbued you with my substance, and nourished you with the marrow of my doctrine! Be up! Be up! The moment for action has come. That is the reason I have caused you to gather this evening here at Montmartre, where I have so often come to meditate in this hollow, this second to that cavern of Manres, where, in Spain, after long years of concentration, I at last perceived the full depth, the immensity of my work. Yes, in order to weld you together in this work, I have broken, bent and absorbed your personalities. I have turned you into instruments of my will as docile as the cane in the hand of the man who leans upon it. Yes, I have captured your souls. Yes, you are now only corpses in my hands. Oh, my dear corpses! my canes! my serfs! my slaves! glorify your servitude. It delivers to you the empire of the world! You will be the masters of all the men! You will be supreme rulers of all the women!"

Loyola's disciples listened to him in devout silence. For a moment he remained steeped in the contemplation of his portentous ambition, meditating universal domination. Presently he proceeded:

"We must prepare ourselves by means of the holy sacrifice of the mass for the last act of this great day. We must receive the body of Jesus, we who constitute his intrepid militia! We the Jesuits!" And addressing himself to Lefevre: "You have brought with you the necessaries for the celebration of mass. Yonder rock" – pointing to the boulder behind which Christian and Justin were concealed – "yonder rock will serve us for altar. Come, to work, my well-beloved disciple."

Lefevre opened the bundle which he had taken charge of. He drew from it a surplice, a chasuble, a Bible, a stole, a chalice, a little box of consecrated wafers, and two small flasks with wine and water. He clothed himself in sacerdotal garb, while one of the disciples took the wax candle, knelt down and lighted the improvised altar upon which the other Jesuits were engaged in disposing the rest of the requisites for the celebration of the divine sacrifice. It was done before Loyola and his disciples. The voice of Lefevre, as he droned the liturgy, alone disturbed the silence of the solitude upon which the wax candle cast a flickering ruddy glow. The time for communion having come, the seven founders of the Society of Jesus received the Eucharist with unction. The service over, Loyola rose again to his feet, and with an inspired mien said to his disciples:

"And now, come, come."

He walked away, limping and followed by his acolytes, leaving behind them the religious implements on the block of stone.

Soon as the Jesuits moved away, Christian and Justin cautiously emerged from their hiding place, astounded at the secret they had just had revealed to them. Christian could still hardly believe that Lefevre, one of his oldest friends, and whose sentiments inclined him to the Reformation, had become a priest, and was one of the most ardent sectarians of Loyola.

"They are gone," Justin whispered to his companion; "I have not a drop of blood left in my veins. Let's flee!"

"What imprudence! We might run against those fanatics. I doubt not they will come back. Let us wait till they have departed."

"No, no! I will not stay here another minute. I am overcome with fear."

"Then let us try to escape by the other issue, which, as you were telling me, runs behind this rock. Come, be brave!"

"I am not sure whether that passage is not now obstructed. It would be dangerous to enter it without a light. A light would betray us. Let's return upon our steps."

More and more frightened, Justin walked rapidly towards the entrance of the quarry. Christian followed, unwilling to leave him alone. The moment they were about to emerge from the subterranean cavern, their ears were struck by the sound of human voices coming from above. The moon was now high in the sky, and lighted the only path that led to the abbey.

"We can not leave this place without being seen," observed Justin in a low and anxious voice. "Those men have gathered upon the platform above the entrance of the cave."

"Listen," said Christian, yielding to an irresistible impulse of curiosity; "listen, they are talking."

The artisans remained motionless and mute. For a moment a solemn silence reigned. Presently the voice of Ignatius Loyola reached them as if it descended from heaven.

"Do you swear?" came from the founder of the Society of Jesus. "Do you swear in the name of the living God?"

"In the name of God," responded the Jesuits. "We swear! We shall obey our master!"

"My sons," Loyola's voice resumed solemnly, "from this place you can see the four cardinal points of that world whose empire I parcel out among you, valiant soldiers of the Society of Jesus. Down yonder, towards the north, lie the land of the Muscovite, Germany, England. To you, Germany, England and the land of the Muscovite – John Lainez."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, to the east, Turkey, Asia, the Holy Land. To you, Turkey, Asia and the Holy Land – Rodriguez of Acevedo."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, towards the west, the new America and the Indies. To you, the new America and the Indies – Alfonso Salmeron."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, to the south, Africa, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the islands of Corsica and Sardinia, and the Balearic Isles. To you, Africa, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the islands of Corsica and Sardinia and the Balearic Isles – Inigo of Bobadilla. Behold your empire."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Finally, here at our feet, Paris, the capital of France, a world in itself. To you, Paris, to you, France – John Lefevre."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Beginning with to-morrow, gird up your loins. Depart, staff in hand, alone, unknown. To work, soldiers of Jesus! To work, Jesuits! The kingdom of earth is ours! To-morrow I depart for Rome, to offer or force upon the Pope our invincible support."

Loyola's voice died away. Hearing the sectarians descending from the platform, Christian and Justin hurried back to their hiding place, behind the huge rock upon which were the implements that Lefevre had used in the celebration of the mass. The latter soon came back, followed by his companions. He doffed his sacerdotal vestments, and approached the improvised altar to gather the sacred vessels. So busied, his hand struck against the chalice, which rolled down and fell behind the rock at the place where the two artisans were crowding themselves from sight. John Lefevre walked back of the rock after the chalice which had fallen close to Christian's feet. The latter saw the Jesuit approach; stoop down and pick up the vase, without seeming, in the demi-gloom, to notice his old friend, whom his hand almost touched, and rejoin the other disciples.

"Lefevre has seen us!" thought Christian to himself. "It is impossible he should not have noticed us. And yet, not a word, not a gesture betrayed upon his countenance the astonishment and uneasiness into which he must have been plunged by our presence at this place, and the knowledge that we are in possession of the secret of his society."

While Christian was absorbed by these thoughts, Lefevre, ever imperturbable, returned to his bag the objects which he used in celebrating the mass, walked out of the cavern with his companions, and whispered a few words into the ear of Loyola. A slight tremor ran through the frame of the latter, who, however, immediately recovered his composure, and whispered back his answer to Lefevre. The latter lowered his head in token of acquiescence. Thereupon the founder of the Society of Jesus and his disciples disappeared in the windings of the road and reached Paris.

Such was the origin of that infernal society.

CHAPTER XI.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

As soon as Christian returned home, late towards midnight, he hastened to communicate to his guest the occurrences at Montmartre. Monsieur John concluded it was urgent to assemble the chiefs of the Reformation in the abandoned quarry, where there was no danger of apprehending the return of the Jesuits, seeing that Ignatius Loyola was to depart immediately for Rome, while his disciples were to scatter to the distant countries parceled out to them. Finally, if, as Christian persisted with good reason in believing, Lefevre had noticed the presence of the two artisans at the Jesuit conventicle, it would be an additional reason to keep them from returning to the spot. Accordingly, Monsieur John decided to convoke the chiefs of the Reformation in Paris for six o'clock in the afternoon of the following day at Montmartre. To this effect he prepared a letter giving the directions to the trysting place. Justin was to proceed in time to make certain that the second issue was practicable. Furthermore, it was agreed between Bridget and her husband that she would absent herself together with her daughter before sunset, in order to allow the stranger to leave the house unnoticed by Hena. On his part, Christian was to pretend an invitation to supper with a friend, in order to engage his son's company in a walk, and was to dismiss him when he thought that Monsieur John had departed. The program was carried out as agreed. When Bridget and Hena returned home after a short walk along the banks of the Seine, the proscribed man had quitted his hospitable refuge, and betaken him to the Montmartre Gate, where Christian was to await him, and conduct him to the place of meeting.

The artisan's wife and daughter busied themselves at their trade of embroidery. They worked in silence by the light of a lamp – Bridget musing over Hervé's repentance, while Hena, lost in revery, frequently allowed her needle to drop inactive on her lap. The young girl was absorbed in her own thoughts, a stranger to what went on around her. The hour of nine struck from the distant clock in the tower of St. James-of-the-Slaughter-House.

"Nine o'clock," observed Bridget to herself. "My son can not be long in coming back. With what joy shall I not embrace him this evening! What a heavy load did not his repentance roll off my heart! The dear child!"

And addressing Hena without removing her eyes from her needlework:

"God be blessed! Dear child, you will no longer have cause to complain of Hervé's indifference. No, no! And when my little Odelin comes back from Italy we shall then all live together again, happy as of old. I am awaiting with impatience the return of Master Raimbaud, the armorer, who will bring us back our gentle Odelin."

Not receiving any answer from her daughter, Bridget looked up and said to her:

"I have been speaking to you some time, dear daughter. You do not seem to hear me. Why are you so absentminded?"

Hena remained silent for an instant, then she smiled and answered naïvely:

"Singular as it may be, why should I not tell you, mother? It would be the first time in my life that I kept a secret from you."

"Well, my child, what is the reason of your absent-mindedness?"

"It is – well, it is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, mother."

Dropping her embroidery, Bridget contemplated her daughter with extreme astonishment. Hena, however, proceeded with a candid smile:

"Does that astonish you, mother? I am, myself, a good deal more astonished."

Hena uttered these words with such ingenuousness, her handsome face, clear as her soul, turned to her mother with such trustfulness, that Bridget, at once uneasy and confident – uneasy, by reason of the revelation; confident, by reason of Hena's innocent assurance – said to her after a short pause:

"Indeed, dear daughter, I am astonished at what I learn from you. You saw, it seems to me, Brother St. Ernest-Martyr only two or three times at our friend Mary La Catelle's, before that unhappy affair of the other evening on the bridge."

"Yes, mother. And that is just the extraordinary thing about it. Since day before yesterday I constantly think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. And that is not all. Last night I dreamt of him!"

"Dreamt of him!" exclaimed Bridget.

So far from evading her mother's gaze, Hena's only answer was two affirmative nods of the head, which she gave, opening wide her beautiful blue eyes, in which the childlike and charming astonishment, that her own sentiments caused her, was depicted.

"Yes, mother; I dreamt of him. I saw him picking up at the door of a church a poor child that shook with cold. I saw him pick up the child, hold it in his arms, warm it with his breath, and contemplate it with so pitying and tender an air, that the tears forced themselves to my eyes. I was so moved that I woke up with a start – and I really wept!"

"That dream is singular, my daughter!"

"Singular? No! The dream is explainable enough. Day before yesterday Hervé was telling me of the charitable nature of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. That same evening we saw the poor monk carried into our house with his face bleeding. That I should have been deeply impressed, and should have dreamt of him, I understand. But what I do not understand is that when I am awake, wide awake, I should still think of him. Look, even now, when I shut my eyes" – and, smiling, Hena suited the action to the words – "I still see him as if he stood there, with that kind face of his that he turns upon the little children."

"But, my dear daughter, when you think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, what is the nature of your thoughts?"

Hena pondered for an instant, and then answered:

"I would not know how to explain it to you, mother. When I think of him I say to myself: 'How good, how generous, how brave is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr! Day before yesterday he braved the sword to defend Mary La Catelle; another day, on the Notre Dame Bridge, he leaped into the water to save an unhappy man who was drowning; he picks up little deserted children, or gives them instruction with so much interest and affection that their own father could not display more solicitude in them.'"

"Thinking over it, dear child, there is nothing in all that but what is perfectly natural. The brother is an upright man. Your thoughts turn upon his good deeds. That's quite simple."

"No, mother, it is not quite so simple as you put it! Are not you all that is best in this world? Is not my father as upright a man as Brother St. Ernest-Martyr? Are not you two my beloved and venerated parents? And yet – that is what puzzles me, how comes it that I oftener think of him than of either of you?"

And after a pause the young maid added in an accent of adorable candor:

"I tell you, mother, it is truly extraordinary!"

Several impatient raps, given at the street door interrupted the conversation. Bridget said to her daughter:

"Open the window, and see who it is that knocks. Probably it is your brother."

"Yes, mother; it is he; it is Hervé," said Hena, opening the window.

She descended to the floor below.

"My God!" thought Bridget to herself in no slight agitation. "How am I to interpret the confidence of Hena? Her soul is incapable of dissimulation. She has told me the whole truth, without being aware of the sentiments the young monk awakens in her. I can hardly wait to inform Christian of this strange discovery!"

The sound of Hervé's steps hurriedly ascending the stairs drew Bridget from her brown study. She saw her son rush in, followed by his sister. As he stepped into the room he cried with a troubled countenance:

"Oh, mother! mother!" and embracing her tenderly he added: "Oh, mother! What sad news I bring you!"

"Dear child, what is it?"

"Our poor Mary La Catelle – "

"What has happened to her?"

"This evening, as I was about to leave the printing shop, father asked me to accompany him part of the way. He was going to a friend's, with whom he was to take supper this evening. Father said: 'La Catelle's house is on our way, we shall drop in and inquire whether she is still suffering from her painful experience of the other evening' – "

"Yesterday morning," Bridget broke in, "after I took her home with your sister, we left Mary calm and at ease. She is a brave woman."

"Notwithstanding her firm nature and her self-control, she succumbed to the reaction of that night's excitement. Last night she was seized with a high fever. She was bled twice to-day. A minute ago we found her in a desperate state. A fatal end is apprehended."

"Poor Mary!" exclaimed Hena, clasping her hands in despair, and her eyes filling with tears. "What a misfortune! This news overwhelms me with sorrow!"

"Unhappily her sister-in-law left yesterday for Meaux with her husband," remarked Hervé. "La Catelle, at death's door, is left at this moment to the care of a servant."

"Hena, quick, my cloak!" said Bridget rising precipitately from her seat. "I can not leave that worthy friend to the care of mercenary hands. I shall run to her help."

"Good, dear mother, you but forestall father's wishes," observed Hervé, as his sister hurried to take Bridget's cloak out of a trunk. "Father told me to hurry and notify you of this misfortune. He said he knew how attached you were to our friend, and that you would wish to spend the night at her bed, and render her the care she stands in need of."

Wrapping herself in her cloak, Bridget was about to leave the house.

"Mother," said Hena, "will you not take me with you?"

"How can you think of such a thing, child, at this hour of night!"

"Sister, it is for me to escort mother," put in Hervé; and, with a tender voice, accompanied with the offer of his forehead for Bridget to kiss, the hypocrite added:

"Is it not the sweetest of my duties to watch over you, good mother?"

"Oh," said Bridget, moved, and kissing her son's forehead, "I recognize you again, my son!" With this passing allusion to the painful incidents of the last few days, which she had already forgiven, the unsuspecting mother proceeded: "A woman of my age runs no risk on the street, my son; besides, I do not wish your sister to remain alone in the house."

"I am not afraid, mother," Hena responded. "I shall bolt the door from within. I shall feel easier that way than to have you go out without company at this hour of night. Why, mother, remember what happened to La Catelle night before last! Let Hervé go with you."

"Mother," put in Hervé, "you hear what my dear sister says."

"Children, we are losing precious time. Let us not forget that, at this hour, our friend may be expiring in the hands of a stranger. Good-bye!"

"How unlucky that just to-day our uncle should have gone to St. Denis!" put in Hervé with a sigh. But seeming to be struck with an idea he added: "Mother, why could not both Hena and I accompany you?"

"Oh, darling brother, you deserve an embrace, twenty embraces, for that bright thought," said the young girl, throwing her arms around Hervé's neck. "It is agreed, mother, we shall all three go together."