“Fatality.”
Dom Claude grew pale again, and the scholar went on heedlessly:
“And the word underneath it, inscribed by the same hand, Anagneia signifies ’impurity.’ You see, we know our Greek.”
The Archdeacon was silent. This lesson in Greek had set him musing.
Little Jehan, who had all the cunning of a spoilt child, judged the moment favourable for hazarding his request. Adopting, therefore, his most insinuating tones, he began:
“Do you hate me so much, good brother, as to look thus grim on account of a few poor scufflings and blows dealt all in fair fight with a pack of boys and young monkeys—quibusdam marmosetis? You see, good brother Claude, we know our Latin.”
But this caressing hypocrisy failed in its customary effect on the severe elder brother. Cerberus would not take the honeyed sop. Not a furrow in the Archdeacon’s brow was smoothed. “What are you aiming at?” he asked dryly.
“Well, then, to be plain, it is this,” answered Jehan stoutly, “I want money.”
At this piece of effrontery the Archdeacon at once became the school-master, the stern parent.
“You are aware, Monsieur Jehan, that our fief of Tirechappe, counting together both the ground rents and the rents of the twenty-one houses, only brings in twenty-nine livres, eleven sous, six deniers parisis. That is half as much again as in the time of the brothers Paclet, but it is not much.”
“I want some money,” repeated Jehan stolidly.
“You know that the Ecclesiastical Court decided that our twenty-one houses were held in full fee of the bishopric, and that we could only redeem this tribute by paying to his Reverence the Bishop two marks silver gilt of the value of six livres parisis. Now, I have not yet been able to collect these two marks, and you know it.”
“I know that I want money,” repeated Jehan for the third time.
“And what do you want it for?”
This question brought a ray of hope to Jehan’s eyes. He assumed his coaxing, demure air once more.
“Look you, dear brother Claude, I do not come to you with any bad intent. I do not purpose to squander your money in a tavern, or ruffle it through the streets of Paris in gold brocade and with my lackey behind me— cum meo laquasio. No, brother, ’tis for a good work.”
“What good work?” asked Claude, somewhat surprised.
“Why, two of my friends wish to purchase some swaddling-clothes for the infant of a poor widow of the Haudriette Convent. ’Tis a charity. It will cost three florins, and I would like to add my contribution.”
“Who are your two friends?”
“Pierre l’Assommeur4
and Baptiste Croque-Oison.”5“Humph!” said the Archdeacon; “these are names that go as fitly with a good work as a bombard upon a high altar.”