From the journal of Jean-Claude Arretemps du Lyons
On My Name and the Nature of my Youth
I will begin this account, to be a record of my experiences, which, my father has impressed upon me, will be of a great and formidable consequence in the years to come. What he might mean by that, I haven't the slightest, but he has insisted that I begin making note of the affairs of my day. Typically, however, my days are filled with a rather sweeping monotony, the likes of which would not make for much of an interesting material for reading, so it will be my intention to only make notes in this book upon those events which to me seem remarkable. I suppose I will begin with my name: I am called Jean-Claude Arretemps, and it is my privilege to have been born and raised in the fine city of Lyons in the Year of Our Lord 1390.
Chiefly, my work is as an aid to the priests of this town. One in particular, a Monsieur Greniere, seems to think I have the perfect makings for a Shepherd of the People myself, but I am forced to constantly remind him that I possess neither the patience nor the stomach to stand before crowds of the people and remark upon the Word for hours or more. My father makes his living in a manner that has always been something of a mystery to me. According to my mother, he provides advice to the political and financial leaders that drive our nation. Incidentally, there's another matter that warrants mentioning. I find myself born into a rather curious era, my many neighbors, elders and kinsmen, speak of a war that has passed so recent, but is not within the existence of my memory. They speak of this battle that has not yet ended, they tell me that King Charles is merely preoccupied, and has no intention of taking his eye off of our old mother country.
But I will digress from this subject as it is not one which interests me in particular. My father insists that I keep myself apprised of the developments among nations, but I find my focus better directed at things more tangible. And within the view of mine eyes, there is no sight more tangible than her, the woman who calls herself Thérèse Partaient. If ever there were a reason why I could not stand to become a man of the cloth, it would be for losing her. She is… something of a curiosity to me, as the nature of our chance meeting is one I hold as a rather personal treasure, and perhaps I shall relate it later in these effects when it appears practical or proper to me. Suffice it to say that Mademoiselle Partaient is a strikingly beautiful girl, with all the features like to make a young lad unable to reserve his lecherous eye. She sports a most kind and endearing smile and laughter able to move even the stony hearts of men who have long since lost their vivacity toward women. She gallivants about the town in her shining white dresses, her chestnut hair, long and flowing, bounces about her shoulders as she skips about, begging this and that little shop for a sip of wine, which she always receives. As I said, the exact nature of our meeting is an affair far too long-winded, I feel, as to be warranted at this time, but we came into contact one day and before long were madly in love. I am most privileged to call this young lady my own, but my father and mother both cast their glares at me, down their noses as always, when I bring her around, seeming anxious to know her presence is near. I cannot begin to claim to understand their suspicions, as the girl has shown naught but love to both they and myself. But then, I have always known them, my father in particular, to be of a very furtive sort.
For as long as my memory is capable of recollecting, I have been a young man rather engrossed in his study. I was quite enamored with the words of Christ from a young age and strode to exemplify the principles taught in his sermons to his disciples as best as I was able, but a child soon learns how precious few men can really bear to turn and offer the other cheek or abandon their riches for the inevitable future. As I relate this recollection, it occurs to me that this is perhaps another reason for my choice of temporary profession; perhaps it is the ideals my more naïve self pursues which drive me forward. I mentioned my chief mentor in passing previously, Monsieur Greniere, and I think I do owe a brief description of the extent of my interaction with the man to whichever fool, now surely bored beyond all sensibility, who, for some reason, has elected to read this journal.
It was a warm afternoon in the golden light of the failing sun, midway through June if memory does accurately serve. At this time, I estimate myself to have been about twelve years of age. I was not a particularly strong boy, and though I was rather well educated in a scholarly sense, I was yet uninformed as to the rather sordid nature of the world, and had chanced into a rather dismal-looking alleyway. There were a few men there. Despicable, ugly-looking, they were, with sullied faces and the most lascivious sneers did they evaluate my presence. One among them wore what seemed to be the tattered sleeve of a coat wrapped around his head in a manner most strange.
Said he to his filthy confidants, "Eh, lads, have a look. Here is a little noble boy lost off the golden-bricked path." The filth-ridden men at each of his sides concurred stupidly with heavy, laughing exhales, probably escaping their mouths quicker than any wit might have escaped their minds. At any rate, I, being a lad of at least some knowledge, recognized the danger and began to gather my steps in the opposite direction. Before I might have resisted or hastened my stride, one of their mud-soaked arms was around me. "Where you off to, boy?" escaped from his rotted teeth.
Much to my great relief, there came another voice, "Leave him be, you bunch of scoundrels! He's not but a boy!" I expected so baseless a threat to be met with scorn and mocking laughter, and so was shocked to see these men drop me, as well as their own affairs, and hurry away. I was greeted by a wearied face, but a happy one, which stared into me with eyes that I might have mistaken for gold in color. The man before me inquired as to whether I was unharmed.
"Yes, yes. Fine, sir. Thank you," I said, as simply as possible, still uncertain of this man's intentions. He smiled to me and placed a rather reassuring hand at my back, telling me that so long as I went forth with God, I would never find myself in any real danger. Foolish though it might have been, I was pleased with the response and expressed my thanks again. The man asked me if I had ever been on the delivering end of a service, ever seen the insides of a church, to which I said no, and he was quick to offer me the chance as I was quick to take it. We walked a bit, talking of some forgotten petty topic, until at last we reached the building, gray stone for its façade like so many of the buildings about, and a small iron cross, rusting onto the stone, as if it were bleeding, adorning the door. The sermon conducted passed slowly, and its precise subject eludes me; I was much more interested in the way this silver-bearded man could command a mass with the pure intonations of his voice as he stood before his lectern, thumbing through the liver-spotted text that smelled so damnably musty. For one reason or another, I found him a sight to behold. My father, upon finding me, however, was far less impressed, and I was quickly led away from the congregation. I returned to visit Monsieur Greniere (he provided his name on the second visit) every week, and have done as much ever since.
Forgive me, but I find it is late and my hands are too weary to further describe of such sentiment, so I will conclude at this juncture for this evening.