The Queen Pedauque | Page 9

any longer to the
Golden Bible, for fear of seeing there expositions rather offensive to the
modesty of a young clerical. To say the truth, I had not to congratulate
myself on this contrivance. Madame Pigoreau, becoming aware of my
sayings, publicly accused me of having robbed her of a set of lace neck
and wrist bands. Her false complaint reached the ears of the College
Regents, who had my boxes searched; therein was found the garment, a
matter of considerable value. I was expelled from college and had, like
Hippolyte and Bellerophon, to put up with the wiles and wickedness of
woman.
"Finding myself in the streets with my few rags and my copybooks, I
ran great risk of starving, when, dressed in my clerical suit, I
recommended myself to a Huguenot gentleman, who employed me as
secretary and dictated to me libels on our religion."
"Ah!" exclaimed my father, "that was wrong of your reverence. An
honest man ought not to lend his hand to such abominations. And as far
as I am concerned, although ignorant, and of a working condition, I
cannot bear the smell of Colas' cow."
"You're quite right, my host," continued the priest. "It is the worst point
in my life. The very one I am most sorry for. But my man was a
Calvinist. He employed me to write against Lutherans and Socinians

only; these he could not stand at all, and, I assure you, he compelled me
to treat them worse than ever it was done at the Sorbonne."
"Amen," said my father. "Lambs graze together while wolves devour
one the other."
The priest continued his narrative:
"Besides, I did not remain for long with that gentleman, who made
more fuss about the letters of Ulric von Hutten than of the harangues of
Demosthenes, and in whose house water was the only drink.
Afterwards I followed various callings, but all without success. I
became a pedlar, a strolling player, a monk, a valet, and at last, by
resuming my clerical garb, I became secretary to the Bishop of Séez
and edited the catalogue of the precious MSS. contained in his library.
This catalogue consists of two volumes in folio, which were placed in
his gallery, bound in red morocco, with his crest on and the edges
gilded. I venture to say it was a good work.
"It would have depended on myself alone to get old and grey in studies
and peace with the right reverend prelate, but I became enamoured of
the waiting-maid of the bailiff's lady. Do not blame me severely. Dark
she was, buxom, vivacious, fresh. St Pacomus himself would have
loved her. One day she took a seat in the stage coach to travel to Paris
in quest of luck. I followed her. But I did not succeed as well as she did.
On her recommendation I entered the service of Mistress de Saint
Ernest, an opera dancer, who, aware of my talents, ordered me to write
after her dictation a lampoon on Mademoiselle Davilliers, against
whom she had some grievance. I was a pretty good secretary, and well
deserved the fifty crowns she had promised me. The book was printed
at Amsterdam by Marc-Michel Key, with an allegoric frontispiece, and
Mademoiselle Davilliers received the first copy of it just when she
went on the stage to sing the great aria of Armida.
"Anger made her voice hoarse and shaky. She sang false and was
hooted. Her song ended, she ran as she was, in powder and hoop
petticoats, to the Intendant of the Privy Purse, who could not refuse her
anything. She fell on her knees before him, shed abundant tears and

shouted for vengeance. And soon it became known that the blow was
struck by Mistress de Saint Ernest.
"Questioned, hard pressed, sharply threatened, she denounced me as the
author, and I was put into the Bastille, where I remained four years.
There I found some consolation in reading Boethius and Cassiodorus.
"Since then I have kept a public scrivener's stall at the Cemetery of the
Saints Innocent, and lend to servant girls in love a pen, which should
rather have described the illustrious men of Rome and commented on
the writings of the holy fathers. I earn two farthings for every love
letter, and it is a trade by which I rather die than live. But I do not
forget that Epictetus was a slave and Pyrrho a gardener.
"Just now, unexpectedly, I have been paid a whole crown for an
anonymous letter. I have not had anything to eat for two days.
Therefore I at once looked out for a cook-shop. From outside in the
street I perceived your illuminated sign and the fire of your chimney
throwing joyful flaming lights on the windows. On your