Part 5 (1/2)
The philosopher replied:
”There remains for them the Salamanders.”
At these words Friar Ange raised a frightened nose over his plate and murmured:
”Don't speak like that, my good sir; in the name of all the saints of my order, do not speak like that! And do not forget that the Salamander is naught but the devil, who a.s.sumes, as everyone knows, the most divergent forms, pleasant now and then when he succeeds in disguising his natural ugliness, hideous sometimes when he shows his true const.i.tution.”
”Take care on your part, Friar Ange,” replied the philosopher, ”and as you're afraid of the devil, don't offend him too much and do not excite him against you by inconsiderate t.i.ttle-tattle. You know that this old Adversary, this powerful Contradictor, has kept, in the spiritual world, such a power, that G.o.d Almighty Himself reckons with him. I'll say more, G.o.d, who was in fear of him, made him His business man. Be on your guard, little friar, the two understand one another.”
In listening to this speech, the poor Capuchin thought he heard and saw the devil himself, whom the stranger resembled, pretty near, by his fiery eyes, his hooked nose, his black complexion and his long and thin body. His soul, already astonished, became engulfed in a kind of holy terror, feeling on him the claws of the Malignant, he began to tremble in all his limbs, hastily put in his wide pockets all the decent eatables he could get hold of, rose gently and reached the door by backward steps, muttering exorcisms all the while.
The philosopher did not take any notice of this. He took from his pocket a little book covered with h.o.r.n.y parchment, which he opened and presented to my dear teacher and myself. It contained an old Greek text, full of abbreviations and ligatures which at first gave me the effect of an illegible scrawl. But M. Coignard, having put on his barnacles and placed the book at the necessary distance, began to read the characters easily; they looked more like b.a.l.l.s of thread that had been unrolled by a kitten than the simple and quiet letters of my St John Chrysostom, out of which I studied the language of Plato and the New Testament. Having come to the end of his reading he said:
”Sir, this pa.s.sage is to be translated as: _Those of the Egyptians who are well informed study first the writings called epistolographia, then the hieratic, of which the hierogrammatists make use, and finally the hieroglyphics._”
And then taking off his barnacles and shaking them triumphantly he continued:
”Ah! Ah! Master Philosopher, I am not to be taken as a greenhorn. This is an extract of the fifth book of the _Stromata_, the author of which, Clement of Alexandria, is not mentioned in the martyrology, for different reasons, which His Holiness Benedict XI. has indicated, the princ.i.p.al of which is, that this Father was often erroneous in matters of faith. It may be supposed that this exclusion was not sensibly felt by him, if one takes into consideration what philosophical estrangement had during his lifetime inspired this martyr. He gave preference to _exile_ and took care to save his persecutors a crime, because he was a very honest man. His style of writing was not elegant; his genius was lively, his morals were pure, even austere. He had a very p.r.o.nounced liking for allegories and for lettuces.”
The philosopher extended his arm, which seemed to me to be remarkably elongated as it reached right over the whole of the table, to take back the little book from the hands of my learned tutor.
”It is sufficient,” he said, pus.h.i.+ng the _Stromata_ back into his pocket. ”I see, reverend sir, that you understand Greek, You have well translated this pa.s.sage, at least in a vulgar and literal sense. I intend to make your and your pupil's fortune; I'll employ both of you to translate at my house the Greek texts I have received from Egypt.”
And turning towards my father, he continued:
”I think, Master Cook, you will consent to let me have your son to make him a learned man and a great one. Should it be too much for your fatherly love to give him entirely to me, I would pay out of my own pocket for a scullion as his subst.i.tute in your cookshop.”
”As your lords.h.i.+p understands it like that,” replied my father, ”I shall not prevent you doing good to my son.”
”Always under the condition,” said my mother, ”that it is not to be at the expense of his soul. You'll have to affirm on your oath to me that you are a good Christian.”
”Barbe,” said my father, ”you are a holy and worthy woman, but you oblige me to make my excuses to this gentleman for your want of politeness, which is caused less, to say the truth, by the natural disposition, which is a good one, than by your neglected education.”
”Let the good woman have her say,” remarked the philosopher, ”and let her be rea.s.sured; I am a very religious man.”
”That's right!” exclaimed my mother. ”One has to wors.h.i.+p the holy name of G.o.d.”
”I wors.h.i.+p all His names, my good lady. He has more than one. He is called Adonai, Tetragrammaton, Jehovah, Otheres, Athanatos and Schyros.
And there are many more names.”
”I did not know,” said my mother. ”But what you say, sir, does not surprise me; I have remarked that people of condition have always more names than the lower people. I am a native of Auneau, near the town of Chartres, and I was but a child when the lord of our village left this world for another. I remember very well when the herald proclaimed the demise of the late lord, he gave him nearly as many names as you find in the All Saints litany. I willingly believe that G.o.d has more names than the Lord of Auneau had, as His condition is a much higher one. Learned people are very happy to know them all, and if you will advance my son Jacques in this knowledge I shall, my dear sir, be very much obliged to you.”
”Well, the matter is understood,” said the philosopher, ”and you, reverend sir, I trust it will please you to translate from the Greek, for salary, let it be understood.”
My good tutor, who was collecting all this while the few thoughts in his brain which were not already desperately mixed up with the fumes of wine, refilled his goblet, rose and said:
”Sir Philosopher, I heartily accept your generous offer. You are one of the splendid mortals; it is an honour, sir, for me to be yours. If there are two kinds of furniture I hold in high esteem, they are the bed and the table. The table, filled up by turns with erudite books and succulent dishes, serves as support to the nourishment both of body and spirit; the bed propitious for sweet repose as well as for cruel love.
He certainly was a divine fellow who gave to the sons of Deucalion bed and table. If I find with you, sir, those two precious pieces of furniture, I'll follow your name, as that of my benefactor, with immortal praise, and I'll celebrate you in Greek and Latin verses of all sorts of metres.”