"Now, Messire Clindor," said the marquis, smiling good-humoredly at the page, whom, in accordance with his usual custom, he had burdened with a name taken from Astrée, "you may go to sup with Bellinde. Leave us, and tell her to take care of you.—Stay," he added, as the page was about to leave the room, "I have been intending all day to reprove you for your manner of walking. I have noticed, my young friend, that you have adopted some habits which you may think are military, but which are simply vulgar. Do not forget, therefore, that, although you are not noble, you are in a way to become so, and that a well-mannered little bourgeois in the service of a man of quality is on the road to the acquisition of a little fief of which he may assume the name. But what will it avail you that I assist you to rub the dirt off your birth, if you persist in befouling your manners? Try to be a gentleman, monsieur, not a peasant. Now then, adopt an easy carriage, try to put your whole foot on the floor when you walk, and not begin your step with the heel and end on the great toe; a trick which makes your gait and the clatter of your shoes resemble the amble of a millers horse. Go now in peace, eat well and sleep well, or else beware of the stirrup-leathers!"
Little Clindor, whose real name was Jean Fachot—his father was an apothecary at Saint-Amand,—received the sermon of his lord and master with great respect, saluted and left the room on tiptoe, like a ballet-dancer, to make it perfectly evident that he could not touch his heels first, since he did not touch them at all.
The old servant, who always remained to the last, having gone likewise to his supper, the marquis said to his sourdelinier:
"Come, my dear friend, just take off that great hat, and eat, without fear of the servants, a good slice of this paté and another of this ham, as you do every evening when we are alone."
Master Jovelin uttered some inarticulate sounds by way of thanks, and began to eat, while the marquis slowly sipped his clairette, less from desire than from courtesy, to bear him company; for it is well to say that, although the old man had many absurd foibles, he had not a single vice.
Then, while the poor mute ate, the good châtelain carried on the conversation all by himself, which was a very great pleasure to the musician, for no other person would take the trouble to speak to a man who could not answer. People had become accustomed to treat him as a deaf-mute; that is to say, knowing that he could not repeat what he heard, they indulged without hesitation in lying or slander in his hearing. The marquis alone talked directly to him, with much deference for his noble character, his great learning and his misfortunes, of which the following is a brief narrative:
Lucilio Giovellino, a native of Florence, was a friend and disciple of the unfortunate and illustrious Giordano Bruno. Trained in the sublime ideas and vast learning of his master, he had, in addition, great aptitude for the fine arts, poetry and languages. Lovable, eloquent and persuasive, he had propagated with success the bold doctrine of the plurality of worlds.
On the day when Giordano died at the stake with the calm dignity of a martyr, Giovellino was banished from Italy forever.
This happened at Rome two years before the period of our narrative.
Under the hand of the tormenters, Giovellino had not chosen to adhere to all of Giordano's doctrines. Although he was deeply attached to his master, he had declined to accept certain of his errors, and as they were able to convict him of only the half of his heresy, they had inflicted only the half of his punishment: they had cut out his tongue.