Beildech having placed in the young man’s hand the proffered coin, the latter bent his head in acknowledgment. “Forgive me, gracious Master,” he said to the old man, “but at present I am not on a walking tour, and if I come to you it is not so much to receive a gift as to ask for work, and to put at your disposal a pair of vigorous arms and a very light heart.” The frank and familiar, but yet respectful manner, of the young stranger awakened Gutenberg’s attention. “Thou belongest not to these parts,” he said to him, “one can tell that by thy accent.” “No, Master, the blood which runs in my veins is only half German, my mother is French, and I was born in Paris. I was a card-maker until the noise of the profession of which you are the creator attracted me first to Strasburg, then to Maïence; until now I have worked for Master Fust, but, as he has just turned me away, I come to you.” This information, as may be supposed, was not calculated to conciliate the favour of his new patron for the little Parisian. Gutenberg answered, not without a certain bitterness, “Boy, if thou dost expect to find a well-covered table with me, and a press as easy to manage as those which thou hast quitted, thou mayest find thyself mistaken. I do not feed my workmen, and as for work, I have at this moment but little to dispose of.” The young man looked with a blank expression round the room. “Master Gutenberg,” said he, “you will do wrong to send me away thus discomfited, without an engagement. I know you have just dismissed two workmen who refused to submit to your orders, and that you want help in your workshop, weak as the help may be that I can offer you. Try me; I am the child of honest parents, my name is Claude Musny at your service, and I am the son of Gisquette Musny.” Here Gutenberg’s attention seemed for a moment particularly arrested, less, perhaps, by the name of the son than by that of his mother; one might even have perceived a slight emotion passing over the face of the old man as he examined more closely the features of the young Frenchman. “Thou sayest thy mother’s name is Gisquette? Gisquette, what a lovely name!” repeated the old man, as if to himself; then, after a moment’s silence, he added, “Claude, I am very sorry, but the thing is impossible, I cannot employ thee.” “In that case adieu, Master Gutenberg, and may you prosper always, and for ever, according to the wish of the most devoted of your disciples!” At these words the little Frenchman seized the hand of the old man and kissed it with much fervour, before Gutenberg had time to withdraw it.