The Queen Pedauque | Page 5

I laughed too, dropping off to sleep, and
my mother used to affirm that the smile still remained on my lips on the
following morning.
My father was a good cookshop-keeper and feared God. For this he
carried on holidays the banner of the Cooks' Guild, on which a fine-
looking St Laurence was embroidered, with his grill and a golden palm.
He used to say to me:
"Jacquot, thy mother is a holy and worthy woman."
He liked to repeat this sentence frequently. True, my mother went to
church every Sunday with a prayer-book printed in big type. She could
hardly read small print, which, as she said, drew the eyes out of her
head.
My father used to pass an hour or two nightly at the tavern of the
_Little Bacchus_; there also Jeannetæ the hurdy-gurdy player and

Catherine the lacemaker were regular frequenters. And every time he
returned home somewhat later than usual he said in a soft voice, while
pulling his cotton night-cap on:
"Barbe, sleep in peace; as I have just said to the limping cutler: 'You
are a holy and worthy woman.'"
I was six years old when, one day, readjusting his apron, with him
always a sign of resolution, he said to me:
"Miraut, our good dog, has turned my roasting-spit during these last
fourteen years. I have nothing to reproach him with. He is a good
servant, who has never stolen the smallest morsel of turkey or goose.
He was always satisfied to lick the roaster as his wage. But he is getting
old. His legs are getting stiff; he can't see, and is no more good to turn
the handle. Jacquot, my boy, it is your duty to take his place. With
some thought and some practice, you certainly will succeed in doing as
well as he."
Miraut listened to these words and wagged his tail as a sign of
approbation. My father continued:
"Now then, seated on this stool, you'll turn the spit. But to form your
mind you'll con your horn-book, and when, afterwards, you are able to
read type, you'll learn by heart some grammar or morality book, or
those fine maxims of the Old and New Testaments. And that because
the knowledge of God and the distinction between good and evil are
also necessary in a working position, certainly of but trifling
importance but honest as mine is, and which was my father's and also
will be yours, please God."
And from this very day on, sitting from morn till night, at the corner of
the fireplace, I turned the spit, the open horn-book on my knees. A
good Capuchin friar, who with his bag came a-begging to my father,
taught me how to spell. He did so the more willingly as my father, who
had a consideration for knowledge, paid for his lesson with a savoury
morsel of roast turkey and a large glass of wine, so liberally that
by-and-by the little friar, aware that I was able to form syllables and

words tolerably well, brought me a fine "Life of St Margaret,"
wherewith he taught me to read fluently.
On a certain day, having as usual laid his wallet on the counter, he sat
down at my side, and, warming his naked feet on the hot ashes of the
fireplace, he made me recite for the hundredth time:
"Pucelle sage, nette et fine, Aide des femmes en gésine Ayez pitié de
nous."
At this moment a man of rather burly stature and withal of noble
appearance, clad in the ecclesiastical habit, entered the shop and
shouted out with an ample voice:
"Hello! host, serve me a good portion!" With grey hair, he still looked
full of health and strength. His mouth was laughing and his eyes were
sprightly, his cheeks were somewhat heavy and his three chins dropped
majestically on a neckband which, maybe by sympathy, had become as
greasy as the throat it enveloped.
My father, courteous by profession, lifted his cap and bowing said:
"If your reverence will be so good as to warm yourself near the fire, I'll
soon serve you with what you desire."
Without any further preamble the priest took a seat near the fire by the
side of the Capuchin friar.
Hearing the good friar reading aloud:
"Pucelle sage, nette et fine, Aide des femnies en gésine,"
he clapped his hands and said:
"Oh, the rare bird! The unique man! A Capuchin who is able to read!
Eh, little friar, what is your name?"
"Friar Ange, an unworthy Capuchin," replied my teacher.

My mother, hearing the voices from the upper room descended to the
shop, attracted by curiosity.
The priest greeted her with an already familiar politeness and said:
"That is really wonderful, mistress; Friar Ange is a Capuchin and
knows how