The Queen Pedauque | Page 5

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 Jeannet? 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 g��sine Ayez piti�� 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 g��sine,"
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 to read."
"He is able to read all sorts of writing," replied my mother.
And going near the friar, she recognised the prayer of St Margaret by the picture representing the maiden martyr with a holy-water sprinkler in her hand.
"This prayer," she added, "is difficult to read because the words of it are very small and hardly divided, but happily it is quite sufficient, when in labour-pains, to apply it like a plaster on the place where the most pain is felt and it operates just as well, and rather better, than when it is recited. I