“Master,” exclaimed the little Frenchman, in a lofty tone, and interrupting Fust, without hesitation, “that is what we have done; but allow me to say one word, one only, with an honesty worthy of the great art which we promote; if all this company thinks to-day of you, and of Master Peter Schoeffer of Gernsheim, of his letter-founding, of his skill in engraving, in illuminating, in printing, ought we, on that account, to forget the man to whom we owe all that we now have? That is why, I say it again, and may all those who feel as they ought to do, say it after me, ‘Long live Gutenberg of Maïence, the first printer of the world, long may he live!’”
With three bounds, and before he could be prevented, the audacious boy reached the table, seized one of the filled wine-cups, and emptied it at a draught. He had just laid it down again, with a crash, when Master Fust, red with anger, pushed him roughly aside, “Fellow,” he exclaimed, in a voice husky with vexation, “what have you done?” “What you should have done instead of me,” replied the little Frenchman, without being disconcerted, and becoming more calm in proportion that his master grew more excited. “How! you have the audacity to come here and jeer us in the presence of our guests, and, above all, in the presence of my brother, the most worthy Burgomaster? To the door, to the door, with the little brawler! Go, go, to your Gutenberg, see if his great presses are at work; go, run through the streets and highways with your hero. To the door with him, I say!” The printer threw a few pieces of small money to the Parisian, and with an angry gesture pointed to the door. “Master Fust,” replied the other, while collecting the coins which were scattered over the floor, “if I pick up this money, it is to take what you owe me; but I cannot go to Master Gutenberg, and that you know as well as I do. Since the day he was obliged to give up his establishment to you, for a debt of a hundred, or a couple of hundred dollars, which you lent him at a high interest, he has not been in a position to set up any press worth speaking of. So it always is in this world. To the one, head and intelligence, to the other money!”
These last words were scarcely uttered, when a blow from a fist fell on the cheek of the little Frenchman. Master John Fust, incapable of further self-control, had struck the blow; and, if Schoeffer and the two other workmen had not interfered, a serious scene might have ensued, to the cost of the audacious boy, and in presence of the guests. In an instant the whole assembly was in an uproar; Christine took refuge, trembling, in the arms of her husband; the guests swore, threatened, jeered, murmured; the workmen in the meanwhile had all the trouble in the world to restrain the little Frenchman, whose clear silvery voice called out through the crowd, “Master Fust, you have no right to strike me! you had not the right even when I was in your service, you have it still less now. I insist on your giving me satisfaction!”