“I shall go of my own accord, and alone,” said the little Parisian, grumbling, “as soon as these German fists have loosened their hold of me, not before. Yes, I shall go straight to Master Gutenberg, and if he has no work to give me at his presses, well, I would rather untie for him the strings of his shoes, than remain any longer in a house where one is forbidden to speak out one’s thoughts in liberty. You, Fust, you, Schoeffer, what would you be without that Gutenberg, whom you have robbed of his goods! O, cursed be the false, the inhospitable threshold! And you who live under this roof, take care lest the hymeneal torch lighted this day change not into a burning flambeau, which shall swallow up, under its wings of flame, the ruins of your ill-gotten wealth!” During this allocution, uttered with all the earnestness of passion, the two workmen had dragged the boy towards the door, resisting all the way. One kick, and he rolled down the staircase, carrying with him the Frankforter and the Strasburger. Schoeffer shut the door on the disputants, reconducted Christine, with much care and solicitude, to her arm-chair, tried to calm his father-in-law, and succeeded in restoring, at least, an appearance of calm to the festival, and to the guests, who had been first surprised, and then alarmed, at this scene. CHAPTER II. _What John Gutenberg, Master printer, said, and what he did, while Peter Schoeffer was taking to wife the demoiselle Christine; all which should interest the reader._ If you have not been spoiled, reader, by the sight of the fine rooms of Messrs. Brockhaus and Hadnel, those _coryphées_ of the present day of the art of typography, who draw off their books on Stanhope presses, in frames of highly polished wood, fastened with bright iron screws, perhaps you will not feel any repugnance to follow me into the low dark abode to which I am about to introduce you. We enter. The night is mild and beautiful, the moon’s silvery beams rest gently on the undulations of the eternally flowing Rhine, a light breeze trembles through the vine leaves, the deep shadows of the houses conceal here and there the streets of old Maïence. But why should we occupy ourselves with such matters? Did the old man with silver hair, with his head bending over the table, and given up body and soul to his work, occupy himself with them? Where were his workmen? They were out of doors enjoying the beauty of the night, being rocked gently in small boats on the river, or drinking in taverns, or standing at church doors saying soft gallantries to their mistresses, and he the solitary, the indefatigable workman, why did he take no rest? His inflamed eye-lids, his forehead furrowed with wrinkles, his rounded back, showed how much he stood in need of it.