"Hydras and apes. Triboulet puts on the mitre, and Bobêche the crown, Crispin plays Lycurgus, and Pasquin parades as Solon. Scapin is heard calling himself Sire, Mascarillo is My Lord … Cheeks made for slaps, are titles for honours. The more they are branded on the shoulder, the more they are bedisened on the back. Trestallion is radiant, and Pancrace resplendent."
CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (Paris-Berlin).
During this time, thediligencefor Nancy was carrying away Marcel and Ridoux at full trot. Marcel had appeared to yield to his uncle's exhortations, and said to himself: "Let us go; that does not bind me to anything. In a couple of days at the latest, I shall be on my way back;" and this had made the worthy Ridoux quite happy.
They were alone in thecoupé, and could converse at their ease.
—Look at this lovely country, that valley, those little hills, and away there the large woods, and do you not think that I shall feel some regret at leaving this part?
—And that little white house at the foot of the hill?… Is it there?
—Ah! so Veronica has pointed it out to you.
—Reluctantly, my son. But I wanted to know all. She is a cautious and trustworthy person who is entirely devoted to you.
—Not a word more about that cautious woman, uncle, I pray.
—Let us rather talk about your promotion.
—My promotion. I assure you, uncle, that I am no longer ambitious.
—What are you saying there? You are no longer ambitious! You are going perhaps to make me believe that you are happy in your shell. Come, rouse yourself. Has a moral torpor already seized you? You are no longer ambitious. Well, I will be so for you, and I intend, yes, I intend, do you hear, that you should make your way. What happiness for a poor old man, like me, when I hear them say: "Monsieur Ridoux, I have just seen your nephew, Monseigneur Marcel, go by." I shall answer then: "It is I, however, who have made him, who have formed him, his Right-Reverence." You will give me your patronage, will you not?
—Dear uncle, said Marcel softened, pressing the old Curé's hands, you still have those ideas then, you always think then that I shall become a Bishop?
—What? yes I think so; I do more than that, I am sure of it. Are you not of the stuff of which they make them? Why should not you become one as well as another?
—A bishopric is not for the first-comer.
—Don't worry me. Are you the first-comer? See, my dear fellow, you really must get this into your head, that in order to succeed in our profession, evangelical virtues are more detrimental than useful, and that there are two things indispensable: first to have a good outside show, to stir yourself and to know how to intrigue to the utmost. As for talent, that is an accessory which can do no harm, but after all, it is merely an accessory. Now, you have a good outside show; you have more talent than is necessary, there is only one thing in which you are faulty, you are not sufficiently intriguing. Well, I will be so for you, and I will stir myself up for you. Success wholly lies in that.
You say that a bishopric is not for the first-comer. You make me laugh. Look at ours, Monseigneur Collard; what transcendant genius does he possess? Is not his morality somewhat elastic, and his virtues very doubtful? But he has a magnificent head, and that from all time has pleased the world in general and the women in particular. Ah, the women, my dear friend, the women! you do not know what a weight they are in the scales of our destinies, and in the choice of our superiors. I know something about it, and if I had had a smaller nose and a better-made mouth, I should not be now Curé of St. Nicholas. But I am ugly and they despise me. How many I know who owe their cross and their mitre to the way in which they say in the pulpit, "my sisters", and to the amiable manner in which they receive the confessions of influential sheep.
—You confess, uncle, that it is abominable.
—I confess that it is in human nature, that is all I confess. Is it not logical to befriend people whose appearance pleases you, rather than those whose face is disagreeable to you? Good Heavens, it has always been the case since the commencement of the world. All that you could say on the subject would not make the slightest change. Let us therefore profit by our advantages when we have advantages, and leave fruitless jeremiads to the foolish and envious.
—Birth also counts for much in our fortune.
—Often, but not always. Look at Collard again, who is the son of a journeyman baker.
—He has that in common with Pope Benedict XII.
—Yes, but he has that only. Therefore, since it is neither his birth, nor his genius, nor his virtues which have helped him on, it is then something else.
—In fact, ecclesiastical history abounds in similar instances. Men, starting from the most humble condition, have attained the supreme dignity: Benedict XI had tended sheep, the great Sixtus V was a swineherd, Urban VI was the son of a cobbler, Alexander V had been a beggar.
—And a host of others of the same feather. Well, that ought to encourage you who are the son neither of a cobbler, or of a pig-seller.
—Would to heaven that I were a cobbler or a shepherd myself; I could have married according to my taste and have become the worthy father of a family, an honest artisan rather than a bad Curé.
—Yes, but Mademoiselle Durand would not have wanted you.
—Oh, uncle, do not speak of that young person with whom you are not acquainted, and regarding whom you are strangely mistaken, for you see her through the dirty spectacles of my servant. You want to take me away on her account, but are there not young persons everywhere? You know, as well as I, to what dangers young priests are exposed; shall I be safe from those dangers by going away? No. And since it is agreed between us that, no more than others, can we avoid certain necessities of nature….
-Alas, alas, human infirmity!
Omnia vincit amor, et nos cadamus amori.
—Then….
—Then, we choose our company; for instance, that pretty girl there.
And Ridoux leant his head out of the door. They had just reached Vic, where they changed horses.
"Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheekDoth blend the tints of cream and rose.And lends the pearls which deck her hatAnd rubies too from off her gown,To be your own fit ornament."
E. DARIO (Strophes).
Before theHôtel des Messageries, a young girl, modestly dressed, was waiting for thediligence, with an old band-box in her hand.
Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her with surprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He had seen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair and those blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost their freshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought her prettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, the mountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in the market-place of Althausen.
By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow?
Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-winded horses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with the red face, and the thin and hungry little children?
He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fair girl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow.
—Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor.
—It is I, she said.
—This way, this way, my little dear, said the conductor with a good-natured familiarity which disgusted Marcel; there is no room inside. And, to the priest's great delight, he opened the coupé.
The young girl seemed surprised, for she hesitated a little and said:
—What, in the coupé?
—Yes, my imp of Satan, in the coupé, and in good hands too. Do you complain? If you are not converted yet, here are two gentlemen who will undertake your conversion.
—Well, I ask for nothing better, she answered laughing; and addressing herself to Marcel: Will you take my band-box for me?
He took the box, and at the same time offered his hand to help her to get up. She leant on it prettily; and bowing to him, and to Ridoux also, she sat down beside Marcel.
—You have come back then into the country, Mademoiselle.
—I have not left it, sir; I have been ill. I am coming out of the hospital.
—Oh, really. And what has been the matter with you?
—'Pon my word, I don't know. I caught a chill after an evening performance, and when I woke up the next morning, I could not move arm or leg. My father was obliged to leave me here in the hospital. They have been very kind to me, and an old gentleman has even paid my coach-fare. Oh, there are good people everywhere.
—And you are going to Nancy?
—To Nancy first, then I shall rejoin the company, which ought to be atEpinal.
Ridoux was listening in his corner.
—You know this young person then? he said.
—I know her through having seen her once at Althausen.
—Twice, the young girl corrected him: when I arrived and when I went away.You remember, we were both of us at our window?
Marcel remembered it very well; he remembered still better the fantastic sight in the market-place, and the lascivious dance, and the theatrical low-cut dress of the mountebank, which had awakened all at once the passion of his feelings. But as he was afraid of allowing the young girl to suspect that the memory of her had left too deep a mark upon him, he answered.
—I don't remember.
Meanwhile, a throng of beggars besieged thediligence; allured by the sight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same timelitanies,patersandavesin undefinable accents and in lamentable voices. Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a fewsousamong the most bare-faced and importunate, that is to say among the most expert beggars and consequently those who least deserved attention, then they threw themselves back into the carriage and shut their ears.
—I have nothing more, said Ridoux, I have nothing more; go and work, you set of idlers.
—Poor things, murmured the player; no doubt, among the number there are some who cannot work.
—There, said Ridoux, is where the old order of things is ever to be lamented. Formerly there were convents which fed all the beggars, while now these starving creatures will soon eat us all up. Ah, it makes the heart bleed to see such misery.
And he took a pinch of snuff.
A poor woman, pale and sickly, with a child on her arm, kept timidly behind the greedy crowd. Zulma perceived her, and made her a sign. Then, taking a pie out of her hat-box, she cut it into two and gave her one half.
—You are giving away your breakfast, said Marcel.
—Yes, sir, it is a present from the kind Sisters. I should have eaten it yesterday, but I preferred to keep it for to-day; you see I have done a good action, she added laughing.
—I see that the Sisters were very kind to you.
—Yes, sir, they have converted me, they made me confess and take theCommunion, which I had not done for a long time.
—That is well, said Ridoux.
Thediligencehad started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags and with bare feet was running, cap in hand.
He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, he cried:
—Charity, kind Monsieur le Curé; charity, if you please.
—Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal.
-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home.
—Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to thegendarmes.
The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again.
—Poor little fellow, said the dancer.
And she threw him the other half of the pie.
Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneous action, for he cried angrily:
—Would you tell us then, Mademoiselle, that you have taken the Communion?No doubt it was with that piece of meat.
—Why, sir?
—In what religion have you been brought up?
—In the Catholic religion.
—Is it possible? Really! you are a Catholic and you keep some pie for your meals on a fast-day, on a Friday! A Friday! he repeated with an accent of the deepest indignation: has not your Curé then taught that it is forbidden to eat meat the day on which Our Lord Jesus Christ died to redeem you from your sins?
—I know it, answered the young girl colouring, but we are not able to attend to religion much. We do not belong to any parish.
—What do you mean by "we?" What is your calling?
—I am a travelling artiste, sir.
—A travelling artiste. What is that?
—I dance character dances, and I appear intableaux vivantsandposes plastiques.
—Poses plastiques! at your age? Are you not ashamed to follow that calling?
—That is the calling which I was taught, sir; I know no other, replied the young girl, whose eyes filled with tears. I have always heard it said that when we gain our living honourably, we have nothing to reproach ourselves with.
—Honourably! that's a fine word!
—I mean to say, without wronging our neighbour.
—And you are talking nonsense. Can you think your life is honourable, when you do not discharge even the most elementary duty of a good Catholic, which is to keep the Friday as a fast-day? And not only that, you encourage others in your vices; in short, that wretched woman, to whom you have given that piece of meat, you incite her to disobey the Church….
—I did not think of that.
—And that little child, he continued with growing anger, that little child to whom you have given this bad example, whom you lead into a disorderly life by throwing him, before two ecclesiastics, some pie on a Friday…. You have caused this little child to offend. Do you not know then what Our Lord Jesus Christ has said about those who cause the little children to offend? But you know nothing about it. Do you take heed of the Divine Master's words, you who, at the beginning of your life, display your youth in sinful dances for the lewd pleasure of passers-by?
—I make my living as I can, replied Zulma, wounded by the rebuke.
—A fine way of making your living! You would do better to pray to the HolyVirgin.
—Will the Holy Virgin give me what I want to eat?
—Ah, they are all like that. Eating! Eating! They only think of eating! It appeals that they have said everything when they have said: "Who will give me to eat?" That is the great argument to excuse the lowest callings, and work on Sundays. Eating? Eating? Eh, unhappy child, and your soul? You must not think only of your body, which will be one day eaten by worms. Your soul also requires to eat.
Marcel interrupted.
—Uncle, I ask you to excuse this young person. She is ignorant of the duties of a Christian, and it is not her fault. This is a soul to guide.
—I do not say that it is not; I wish then that she may find someone to guide her.
Thereupon he opened his breviary; but he had not finished the second page of that potent narcotic before he was sound asleep.
"Let us not ask of the tree what fruit it bears."
CAMILLE LEMONNIER (Mes Medailles).
—Monsieur le Curé is a trifle abrupt, said Marcel, bat he has an excellent heart.
—Yes, he seems to be quickly offended. It is quite different with the old gentleman who came to see me at the Hospital. There is a good sort of a man!
—The Chaplain, no doubt.
—No, he is a judge. When I knew it, I was quite alarmed at it. A judge, that makes one think of thegendarmes. I was quite in order, fortunately. Besides, he is the president of a great Society, which enters everywhere, and knows what is going on everywhere. Ah, he is a man who frightened me very much the first time I saw him. But he is as kind as can be.
—You are talking, no doubt, of Monsieur Tibulle, President of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and Judge of the Court at Vic.
—Monsieur Tibulle, that is he. A benevolent man, but who does good only to people who are religious and honest and right-minded—as he says. As I am an artiste, the Sister was afraid that he would not trouble himself about me, but he saw plainly that I was an honest girl.
—What do you mean by honest girl?
She looked at him attentively:
—You know very well, she said.
—But it is not enough to receive the Communion once, by chance, to be honest.
—Was I not obliged to go to confession before?
—Ah, I can explain it all now. You have been washed from your sins. That is well, my daughter, but you must not fall into them again.
—Fall where?
—Into your sins.
—That will be very hard, said Zulma with a sigh, for I commit so many of them.
—Many! so young! How old are you?
—Sixteen.
—Sixteen; and so grown-up already. But what are the sins that you can commit at sixteen?
—Many. The Curé of the Hospital has assured me so. He said to me that I was a cup of iniquity.
—Oh, he has exaggerated; I feel sure that he has exaggerated. What sins do you commit then?
—I do not say my prayers, I do not fast on Friday, I do not go to Mass.
—What then?
—Others besides.
—What are they?
—I do not know; there are so many.
—Which are those that you commit by preference? The sins which you have just related to me are infractions of the Church's laws. But the others … you do not know what are the sins which you take pleasure in committing?
—They all give me pleasure. If I sin, it is because it gives me pleasure, is it not? If it did not give me pleasure, I should not sin.
—But, after all, there are pleasures which you love more than others.
—Assuredly. Are not all pleasures sins?
—All those which are not innocent, yes.
—How can I distinguish innocent pleasures from those which are not so?
—Your conscience is the best judge.
—And when my conscience says nothing?
—That is not a sin.
—Well, Monsieur le Curé of the Hospital has accused me of a heap of sins for which my conscience does not reproach me at all.
—My child, habit sometimes hardens the heart, but you are not of an age to have a hardened heart. I feel certain that your heart, on the contrary, is kind and tender, and that if you commit faults, it is through ignorance. What are then those great faults?
—Must I tell you them in order to be an honest girl?
—Yes, I should like to hear them; I might be able to give you some good advice. Advice is not to be despised, particularly in your condition, exposed as you are, young and pretty as you are.
—Pretty! you think me pretty?
—Yes, said Marcel smiling; am I the first to tell you so, and don't you know it?
—Oh, no, you are not the first. When I am passing by somewhere, or when I am taking part in the outside show, I often hear them say: Eh, the pretty girl! But you are the first from whom it has given me so much pleasure to hear it. Is that a sin too?
—A little sin of vanity, but extremely pardonable. If you have no greater ones than that, you are really an honest girl.
He looked at her and smiled. Zulma caught his look, and blushed.
—Where are you going to stay at Nancy?
—The gentleman who paid my fare, gave me also the address of a house where I can rest for a day or two while I am waiting for news from my company: theHôtel du Cygne de la Croix.
—I know it, said Ridoux who had just woke up, it is a respectable house, the best which a young person like you could meet with. I have no doubt but that you will be welcomed there and at a moderate price, being recommended by the worthy Monsieur Tibulle. The mistress of the establishment is a conscientious lady, well-disposed and observing her religious duties. She is not one who will give you meat on a Friday. Monsieur Tibulle takes a great interest in you then?
—Yes, sir. He has even said that if I wished, he would find a more suitable position for me; but what position could he give me?
—He might find you some … he is an influential man. I invite you to follow his advice. He is a member of theSociety for the protection of poor young girls.
—But, no doubt, I shall not see him again.
—Then, said Marcel, I, for my part, would wish to be useful to you; but unfortunately, you are only passing through, and I also am not here for long. Nevertheless, if for one cause or another you should have need of anyone … you understand … a young girl might find herself at a loss in a huge town … you will enquire for the Abbé Marcel at this address.
-Many thanks, sir.
They had arrived. The travellers separated. The young girl with her small amount of luggage directed her steps in all confidence towards the inn which the old member of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul had acquainted her with, while Ridoux and Marcel took their way to the Place d'Alliance, where resided the Comtesse de Montluisant.
"Devotion is the sole resource of coquettes: when they are become old, God becomes the last resource of all women who know not aught else to do."
Ashis unclehad foreseen, the young Curé pleased the old lady greatly. She examined him with satisfaction and predicted that he would make his way.
—You have not deceived me, she said to Ridoux, here is a priest such as we require. We are encumbered with awkward, ridiculous, red-raced men, who bring religion into disrepute. Why not send all those peasants back to their village, and select men like Monsieur l'Abbé? It is a shame, an absolute shame to allow you to stagnate in this way. I shall reproach Monseigneur severely for it.
—It is the fault of the Grand-Vicar Gobin, said Ridoux; he had taken a dislike to my nephew.
—I have known that. He was a very harsh and a very tiresome man. Too frozen virtue which has melted, I am told. I do not want to believe it. He is the talk of the town. It is abominable, but I do not pity him. That is what comes of not making religion amiable. Although we are old, Monsieur Marcel, we are of the new school; we firmly believe that religion and agreeable gaiety ought to proceed in harmony. We want conciliatory and amiable priests. In this way the women let themselves be won over. I may confess it to you, I who am double your age; and in so far as we shall have the women, the world is ours.
While asking himself, what influence this more than middle-aged lady could exercise over the Bishop's decisions, Marcel quickly perceived that in order to be successful, he had only to be in the good graces of this estimable dowager, and, in spite of the remembrance of Suzanne, he tried to be amiable and witty.
But soon his ideas of ambition returned to him in this sumptuous drawing-room, surrounded with comfort and luxury: he thought that he had only to wish it, in order to become himself too, one of the great of the earth, and it appeared to him that the Comtesse do Montluisant ought to be the instrument of a rapid fortune.
The old lady was one of those women, very numerous in the world, who make of religion a convenient chaperone for their intrigues and their affairs of gallantry. When they are old, and can scarcelyventureany longer on their own account, they generously place their experience and their small talents at another's service, and willingly assist the intrigues of others. That is calledlending the hand, and more than once the old lady had countenanced, through perfectly Christian charity, the secret interviews of sweet sheep with their tender pastor.
The deduction must not be made from this that all the devout are courtesans when they are young and procuresses in their ripened age.
Whatever may be said, all are not hypocritical and vicious. Vice usually comes in the long run, and hypocrisy, which oozes from the old arches of the temples, and from the antique wainscoting of the sacristies, falls at length upon their shoulders like an unwholesome drizzling rain, but for the most part they begin with conviction and good faith.
They attend church frequently, not only because it isgood form, not only through want of occupation and through habit, but from inclination.
The melodies of the organ, the odour of incense, the singing of the choir, the meditation and silence, the flowers, the wax-tapers, the gilding, the pictures, the mysterious light which filters through the stained-glass windows, the radiant face of the Virgin, the sweet and pale countenance of Christ, the statues of the saints, the niches, the old pillars, the small chapels, all this mystic poetry pleases them, everything enchants and intoxicates them, even to the sanctimonious and hypocritical face of the beadle and the sacristan.
It is their element, their centre, their world. They attach themselves to the old nave as sailors attach themselves to their ship.
They know all the little corners and recesses of the temple. They have knelt at all the chapels and burnt tapers before all the saints. But there is always one place which they have an affection for, and where they are invariably to be found. Why? Mystery! What do they do there? Mystery again. They remain there for whole hours, motionless, dreaming, their eyes fixed on vacancy, their thoughts one knows not where, and in their hands a book of prayers which they open from time to time as if to recall themselves to reality.
A young priest passes by. He recognizes them. He bows and smiles to them like old acquaintances. In fact, he sees them there every day at the same place. Godly sheep! They look at him passing by, and, while pretending to read their psalms, they follow him with that deep, undefinable, mysterious look, which inspires fear.
What connection is there between their prayers and reveries, and the lively behaviour of this red-faced Abbé?
How he must laugh, and how he must inwardly despise these women, who can find no better employment for the day than to mutterPaternosters, devoid of meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vague sanctimonious contemplation of amysterious unknown.
Poor women! who, better led, better instructed in their duties and mission in life, would have become excellent mothers, might have been the light and joy of some hearth which now remains deserted, and who, lost and misled by a false education and a detestable system of morality, fall into wasting mysticism, hysterical ecstasies, a contemplative and useless existence, into degrading practices and shameful superstitions, and instead of being the fruitful animating springs of moral and social progress, become the passive instruments, the unfruitfulthingsof the priest, that is to say the agents of reaction.
It is they who have caused thinkers to doubt the noble part which woman is called to fulfil; who have compelled Proudhon to say: "Woman is the desolation of the just," and that other apostle of socialism, Bebel, that she is incapable of helping in the reconstitution of Society:
"Slave of every prejudice, affected by every moral and physical malady, she will be the stumbling-block of progress. With her must be used, morally certainly, perhaps physically, the peremptory reason to the slaves of the old race: The Stick!" We are far from the divine book of Michelet,Love.
No, do not let us beat woman, even with a rose, as the Arab proverb says. She is a sick child, foolishly spoiled, who requires only to be cured and reformed by another education. The Comtesse was not like this. Skilful and intelligent, she knewwhat talking meant, and how to read in wise men's eyes and between the lines of letters. Therefore, she had learnt in good time, how to bring together two things which the profane suppose to be so opposed to one another, and which form the secret of the Temple:Religion and pleasure.
"And she was quite right," Veronica would have said, "for how can pleasure hurt God."
"Je, dist Panurge, me trouve bien du conseil des femmes, et mesmement de vieilles."
RABELAIS (Panurge).
They took a light repast, and it was decided that Marcel should repair to the Palace that very day.
—There is no time to lose, said the Comtesse. The Curé of St. Marie is much coveted, and we have competitors in earnest. There is firstly the Abbé Matou, who is supported by all the fraternity of the Sacred Heart; he is young, active, wheedling and honey-tongued. He is the man I should choose myself, if I did not know you. He has had certainly a funny little story formerly with some communicants, but that is passed and gone, and as, after all, he is an intelligent priest and very Ultramontane, Monseigneur would he desirous of nominating him in order to rehabilitate him in public esteem. He is dangerous.
Now we have little Kock. He has rendered important services. But he is the son of an inn-keeper, and he has common manners. Let us pass him by. There is yet theSweet Jesus. Do you know the sweet Jesus, Abbé Ridoux?
—Yes, it is the Abbé Simonet.
—The Abbé Simonet, said Marcel, I know him; we were together at theSeminary. Do they call him the sweet Jesus? He was a terrible lazy fellow.
—Well, he is not so among the ladies, I assure you They all are madly in love with him. He confesses the wives of the large and small shop-keepers, and he has enough to do. The gentry used to go to the Abbé Gobin. Now he has gone away, what will become of all the sinners of the Old-Town? Supposing they were all to fall upon that poor Simonet! It is enough to make one shudder. DearSweet Jesus! When I see him wandering in the Cathedral with his long fair hair, and his down-cast eyes, I understand the infatuation of the women. He is nice enough to eat; yes, gentlemen, to eat. Ah, you do not know as well as we do, how religion gains by young and handsome pastors for its interpreters, and with what rapidity the holy flock increases. It is an astonishing thing. I fear that we must strive very hard against theSweet Jesus.
—We will strive, said Ridoux.
—And we will employ every means. Go, dear Abbé, hasten to Monseigneur's, he is warned of your visit, and before entering on the struggle, it is well to reconnoitre the ground. Go, I have good hopes that we shall have St. Marie.
Thus Marcel found himself enlisted, in spite of himself. The Curé of St. Marie was, to tell the truth, perfectly indifferent to him. That one or another mattered to him but little. He had considered that it was perhaps indispensable that he should quit Althausen for the sake of his reputation and the tranquillity of his heart. His heart? Was it then no longer Suzanne's? More than ever: but he thought by this time that if there are reconciliations with heaven, there were none such with his maid-servant, and that to rid himself of her, he must first quit Althausen. Suzanne from time to time could come to Nancy, and it was much more easy and less perilous for him to contrive interviews with her there, than in that village where they were spied upon by all. Afterwards they would see….
"This world is a great ball where fools, disguisedUnder the laughable names of Eminence and HighnessThink to swell out their being and exalt their basenessIn vain does the equipage of vanity amaze us;Mortals are equal: 'tis but their mark is different."
VOLTAIRE (Discourse sur l'Homme).
Marcel felt oppressed at heart, when he put his foot again, for the first time after five years, within the episcopal Palace.
It was there formerly—five years ago, quite an abyss—he had dreamed of a future embroidered with gold and silk, but it was there also that he had seen his first illusions and his inmost beliefs flee away.
Nothing had changed; the Palace was always the same; there were the same faces, the same porter with the wan complexion, the same attendants, at once haughty and servile. Nevertheless, nobody recognized him. This priest, browned by the sun, old before his years through disappointment, almost bent beneath the load of his secret troubles, was different from the young and brilliant curate, who, full of hope had launched himself formerly into the illimitable future.
The lacqueys of the episcopal palace saluted him respectfully for his good looks; but when he gave his name, they eyed from head to foot with disdain and insolence this obscure country Curé, of whose disgrace they were aware.
—Monseigneur is much engaged, said a kind ofvalet de chambrewith a sneaking look; I don't think he can receive you. You will call again to-morrow. Monseigneur has given orders not to be disturbed.
—Then I will wait.
—Wait if you wish to, replied the lacquey, but you run the risk of waiting a long time.
If it had not been for the valet's insolence, Marcel would no doubt have gone away, and perhaps, would have abandoned the affair; but, humiliated at hearing himself addressed in that tone, he became obstinate.
—Can you not then inform Monseigneur that the Curé of Althausen desires to speak with him?
—Althausen! Ah, well! I believe that the Curé of Mattaincourt and Monsieur le Curé of the Cathedral have called and not been received, replied the valet; consequently, he addedin petto, we shall not disturb ourselves for a junior like you.
—Can I speak withMonseigneurthe Secretary?
—Monsieur l'Abbé Gaudinet does not like to be disturbed, and I believe besides that he is in conference with his Lordship.
Marcel was aware that in the episcopal Palace the village Curés are treated with less regard than the dogs in the back-yard; therefore he took his own part, and he had just sat down on a bench without saying a word, deliberating with himself whether be ought to wait or to go away, when a little priest with a busy and important air, with spectacles on his nose and a pen behind his ear, quickly crossed the anteroom.
—Is it not Monsieur l'Abbé Gaudinet? said Marcel rising.
—Ah, cried the former, Monsieur le Curé of Althausen, I think?
It was the Secretary, and he aspired, as may be remembered, to the envied post of curate at St. Nicholas. He thought to obtain the good graces of Ridoux by rendering a service to Marcel.
—Monseigneur is really too much engaged, said he, but I will obtain admittance for you anyhow.
And he made him go into a small apartment next to the Bishop's private cabinet.
—I will call you when it is time, he said to him and went out.
Marcel, left alone, heard the sound of a voice in Monseigneur's cabinet, and he recognized perfectly old Collard's.
He would have been failing in good clerical traditions, if he had not gently drawn near the door and listened with all his ears; struck with amazement, he heard the singular conversation which follows.
"One thing which it is necessary to take into account, is that they are very precocious. A French girl of fifteen is as much developed as regards the sex and love, as an English girl of eighteen. This is accounted for essentially by Catholic education and by the Confessional, which brings forward young girls to so great an extent."
MICHELET (L'Amour).
—Let us see, little one; look me right in the face. Madame de Montinisant has assured me that you were very nice, very sweet, very submissive, very modest, in fact ail the good qualities in the superlative, and that you were worthy of entering into the sisterhood of the Holy Virgin, in spite of your youth; is that quite true?
—Yes, Monseigneur.
—Ah, ah! It is true, do you say? I am going to know exactly, I am going to know if you are truthful or not. God has bestowed on Bishops the gift of divining everything. Did you know that?
—No, Monseigneur.
—Ah, ah! You are smiling; you believe perhaps that it is not true; wait, wait, you shall see indeed. Is it long since she made her first communion?
—Nearly two years, Monseigneur.
—Two years, ah, ah! Then the little girl is fourteen.
—Only thirteen, Monseigneur.
—Thirteen! thirteen! that is very nice. At thirteen one is already a grown-up girl. Are you already a grown-up girl, little rogue?
—I don't know.
—You don't know, ah, ah. We are going to see first, if you are modest. Come close to me; see, little girl, give me your chin, and this pretty little dimple…. Oh, oh! you are laughing, stay, stay … she has some pretty little dimples on her cheeks too, the little naughty thing. We are going to make a little confession…. Ah, you are blushing. Why are you blushing? You have then some great sins on your conscience? Come, you are going to tell me all that … quite low … in my ear.
—But, Monseigneur….
—There is nobut, Monseigneur. It is the conditionsine qua nonof entering the sisterhood. You understand that in order to admit a sheep into his flock, the shepherd must be completely edified regarding that fresh sheep…. The sheep then must relate all her wicked sins to her Bishop. It is God who wills it, it is not I, little girl. What enters by one ear, goes out directly by the other. I should be much puzzled, after the confession to repeat a single word of what you have told me. You know what a speaking-tube is.
—Yes, Monseigneur.
—Well, the Confessor's ear is the speaking-tube of the ear of God. Has not your Confessor taught you that?
—Oh, yes, Monseigneur.
—Well, then, we have nothing to be afraid of, and she must not hesitate to confide to us her little faults. Even were there very great sins, I shall hear them without making any remonstrance, for that will prove to me that you have confidence in your Bishop. Come, place yourself there, near me, on your knees. You have no need to recite yourConfiteor; it is only an examination of conscience that we are both going to make. There! very well, put this little cushion under your knees, you will be less tired. See, where are we going to begin?
—One God only thou shalt adore…
No, no, that is unnecessary; I am fully persuaded that you love God and your parents with all your heart.
—The goods of others thou shalt not take…
Ta, ta, ta, I am quite aware that you are not a thief—a thief has not a pretty little face like that; let us go on at once to the sixth commandment:
The works of the flesh thou shalt not desireBut in marriage only.
There, that is what moat concerns little girls. Do you know what are the works of the flesh?
—No, Monseigneur.
—Oh, it is something very abominable, and I do not know how to explain it to you. Nevertheless, in order to know if you have sinned against this commandment, I must make myself understood. Has not your Confessor already spoken to you about it?
—No, Monseigneur.
—Ah, do not tell a falsehood. It is a mortal sin to tell a falsehood in confession. Who is your Confessor?
—He is Monsieur Matou.
—Ah, Matou! the Abbé Matou. Yes, yes, he has spoken to you about it, I know him; he must have spoken to you about it. Come, tell me all about that.
—Well, once he asked me….
—Ah, ah! well, well! do not stop. What is it he asked you?
—He asked me … ah! it is a long time ago, before my first communion.
—Well?
—He asked me, if I did not go and play with the little boys.
—And then?
—If I had not culpable relations with them.
—Culpable relations with little boys, well! And what did you answer him?
—I answered him that I had not.
—That you had not! Was that quite true? Do not blush, and do not tell a falsehood. I shall see if you are going to tell a falsehood.
—Yes, Monseigneur, it was quite true; I did not even know what MonsieurMatou meant.
—And you know it now?
—Yes, he explained it to me.
—Oh, oh! he explained it to you. And how did he explain that to you?
—He told me….
—Let us see what he told you. Come, come, you most not hang down your head: see, lift up this pretty face and show me this little dimple; what did the Abbé Matou say to you?… Eh, eh! who is there! who is knocking at the door? Is it you, Gaudinet? Rise up, my little daughter, and go and sit down there, in the corner. Come in, Gaudinet, come in then.
Gaudinet put his head discreetly inside.
—Monseigneur, I came to inform you that the Curé of Althausen has been there for some time.
—There? where is that?
—In the cabinet.
—What! in the cabinet? Ah, are you mad, Gaudinet, to send people in this way into my cabinet? I do not approve of that, I do not approve of that at all. What does that Curé of Althausen want with me?
"Such were the words of the man of the Rock; his authority was too great, his wisdom too deep, not to obey him."
CHATEAUBRIAND (Atala).
Marcel had not heard these last words. At Gaudinet's first word, he had quickly vanished, foreseeing that a terrible tempest would burst upon his head, if the Bishop should suspect that he had been a witness of his way of hearing little girls' confessions, the usual way however of nearly all priests; I appeal to the memories of the Lord's sheep.
—Monsieur le Curé!… cried Gaudinet, opening the door. Ah, he is no longer there. He has gone away, Monseigneur. I had told him, in fact, that your Lordship was very busy, and, no doubt, he wished not to trouble you.
—I was, in fact, expecting him. He will return to-morrow. But, for God's sake, Gaudinet, never let anybody enter that room without warning me beforehand.
Marcel was already at the bottom of the stairs. A valet called him back, and Gaudinet, after bringing out the little girl, introduced him to Monseigneur's presence.
—Ah, there you are, said the latter in a harsh tone, looking him straight in the face. Why did you go away?
—I was told that Monseigneur was engaged, and I feared to disturb yourLordship.
—Who told you that?
—The Abbé Gaudinet.
—You are much changed. I should not have recognized you. I have received a letter from Monsieur le Curé of St. Nicholas, he added, searching on his desk. Here it is. He says that you have returned to better sentiments … that you are amended, humbled before God … that you wish henceforth to follow the good way … Is that so?
—That is my desire, Monseigneur.
—It is not enough to desire, sir, you must intend, firmly intend.
—I intend also.
—I intend to believe it. I ask nothing better than to oblige my old friend Ridoux by doing something for you. Sit down. We are in want of priests, that is to say, intelligent, hard-working, active priests, on whom we can absolutely rely. Times are becoming difficult. Evil doctrines are spreading. Faith is passing away. Infamous writers, wretched pamphleteers are spreading everywhere, at so much a line, the seeds of doubt and perversity. And to crown the evil, imprudent and maladroit priests are indulging their vices and creating scandal. But we are not discouraged. Is the holy arch in danger because a few nails are rusty, because a few cords are rotten? Other nails and cords are supplied in their place, and the rottenness is cast away. But we must not hide from ourselves that we are passing through a melancholy period. This is what priests for the greater part do not clearly see. They slumber in their priesthood, take their emoluments, grow fat, go their small way, and believe they have discharged their duty. That is not the case. When a man has the honour to be a priest, he must be active. It is necessary, as in the time of the persecutions, to make proselytes and win souls; to confront the irreligious propaganda with our propaganda; lampoons, with lampoons; speeches, with sermons; acts, with acts. In short, we must struggle. Can we remain still and idle, when our Holy Father is imprisoned in a den of thieves?
The time has come. We are fighting for our very existence, we must close the ranks, take count of ourselves, and above all see on what and on whom we can count. Let us see what we can expect from you? What do you ask? You wish to come to the town? I warn you that it will be hard, if you intend to do what I expect of you.
—The trouble does not frighten me, Monseigneur.
—You will have a difficult parish. You will have to run foul of a thousand different interests, and not give the slightest pretext for slander. You understand me? There are five or six influential Liberals whose wives or daughters you must win over adroitly, and at any cost—at any cost, you understand. Do you feel yourself qualified for this work? Are you the man we need?
—I will try, Monseigneur.
—You will try. That is not on answer. It is not enough to try; you most succeed. We are surrounded with men who commit nothing but follies, while intending to do well. Hell, you know, is paved with good intentions.
He looked at Marcel attentively, and the latter asked himself if this were really the man he had heard, only a few moments before, talking lightly with a little girl.
—You have good manners, continued the Bishop; you are intelligent, I know. You will succeed therefore, if you intend it seriously. Our misfortune is, that we are encumbered with dull and stupid peasants, whom the Seminary has been able only partly to refine, and who render us ridiculous. You must certainly have gone to sleep in your village?
—No, Monseigneur, I have worked.
—We shall see that. And what sort of people are they? Do they perform their religious duties?
—A good and hard-working population.
—Do they perform their religious duties?
—Yes. Monseigneur, I was satisfied with them.
—What society?
—Very little. The lawyer, the doctor….
—Right-thinking?
—Tolerably so.
—And the women?
—Much the same as all country-folk, ignorant and narrow-minded.
—No, you were not the man needed there. You would lose your time and your powers. I will send one of those brutes of whom I have just been speaking. Well, go; you can tell the Abbé Ridoux that you will have the cure. Come again to-morrow. I even think it will be useless for you to return to Althausen.
"I turned my head and I saw a number of the dead in living bodies. These are the worst spectres, because they must be subdued: you touch them, they touch you, and, in order to drag you away to their tomb, they seize you with an arm of flesh which is no better than the marble hand of the Commendatore."
EUGENE PELLETAN (ÉLISÉE,Voyage d'un homme à la recherche de lui-même).
Marcel went away disconsolate. So it was done. He was changed, another put in his place at Althausen. He had hoped for opposition, he had counted on objections from the Bishop, he thought, in short, that he would remain in suspense for some weeks, perhaps for some months, during which he would have the time to look before him and reflect; but no, all at once: "Go and tell the Abbé Ridoux that you have the cure." Well, and Suzanne? Could he leave Suzanne in this way? He had, it is true, informed her of his departure the day before; but had not everything changed since the day before? Could be abandon thus his heart which he had left behind there? More than his heart, his whole soul, his life, the maiden who had yielded herself.
Strange contradictions. When he had believed his change far distant and still but slightly probable, he had thought he could leave Suzanne easily, arrange far away from her for secret interviews, and await events; now that this change was certain and had just become an accomplished fact, he looked upon it as a catastrophe. Instead of hastening to announcethe good newsto Ridoux, he proceeded to roam through the streets, assailed by his thoughts.
"And I shall be obliged to live in this world which I have just caught a glimpse of, to elbow these men at every hour, to mingle in their intrigues, to blend myself in their life. That unscrupulous old Comtesse, that insolent prelate, Gaudinet, Matou, Simonet and the rest, all oozing forth hypocrisy, intrigue and vice; dreaming of one thing alone, to satisfy their ambition, their passions, and their appetites. And these are the ministers of God! Veronica was quite right:
"'All the same, we are all the same, all.' And I am one of the least bad. I was blind and idiotic not to have cast my gaze earlier into this filthy sewer.—Blind, idiotic and deaf."
He passed near a lofty, gloomy building. It was the Seminary. The desire came upon him to go in. Some of his old fellow-pupils had remained there, as masters or professors. But he altered his mind. What was the good? What would he do? What would he say to them? There was henceforth an abyss between him and these men who remained encrusted in the vessel of clericalism, the most uncrossable of all abysses, that which divides the thoughts. They were perhaps happy. He recalled to mind the long hours he had passed beneath the Sacred Heart in the little chapel of an evening, amidst the wax-lights, the incense and the flowers, mingling his voice in exaltation with the voices of the young Levites, and singing senseless hymns, with his heart melting with love of God.
And he began to envy those young fanatics whose blind and unintelligent faith killed every rising thought, and who were ready to suffer martyrdom to support the ridiculous beliefs which they had been taught and which they were called upon to teach. Blind, idiotic and deaf.
"Why am I not so still!" he said; "I should believe myself the only guilty one, the only wicked and perverse one among all those apostles; I should curse my weaknesses and myself; but at least I should have faith, I should walk onward with a star upon my brow, the star of sublime follies which gives light and life, whereas I see nought around me but desolation and death. I should humble myself before the Almighty, and I should cry to him like the poet:
"'Oh Lord, oh Lord my God, thou art our Father:Pity, for thou art kind! pity for thou art great!'
"And instead of that, I am obliged to humble myself before that Bishop whom I despise, to endure the scorn of his lacqueys, and the offensive patronage of his secretary, to have the opportunity of saying:
"'A little place in your good graces, Monseigneur!' No, a thousand times no. My village, my poor belfry, my humble parsonage, my liberty, and my Suzanne!"
By his dejected look, his uncle and the Comtesse believed he had not succeeded.
—Too late! they cried. The cure is given away.
—Yes, he answered.
—To whom? To theSweet Jesus, I wager. Ah, the Tartuffe.
—To me.
—And that is why you have a funereal expression?
—Yes, uncle, for I am burying for ever my tranquillity and my happiness.
—Is it only that? Madame la Comtesse, I present to you the oddest and the most extraordinary man you have ever met. Judge him yourself. He has just carried off at the first onset what he was eagerly desiring, and there he is as cheerful as a flogged donkey. Ah, my dear Madame, how difficult it is to benefit people in spite of themselves.
—That is my opinion also, said the Comtesse, looking tenderly with her little eyes, still brilliant in spite of their long service, at the young priest, for whom she felt that vague unfruitful passion which old courtesans have for every young and handsome man; and she made him relate minutely all the details of the interview.
—Bravo! bravo, she cried. It is more than I hoped. But do not alarm yourself at the difficulties of the task. Monseigneur wishes to prove you. I am acquainted with the parish. The Radicals have no influence there. One of them the other day took it into his head to diecivillyand, in spite of the protestations of some low scoundrels, he has been buried in the early morning without drum or trumpet in the criminals' hole. Two primary schools are in our hands, and with a little skill we shall have the third.
—How?
—By taking away all the means of work from the workmen who send their children there. It is a task, Monsieur le Curé, which is incumbent upon you.
—And so, said Marcel bitterly, I must try to take away their bread from the fathers.
—I suppose, said Ridoux severely, that when the interest of religion is in question, there is no reason to hesitate. Madame la Comtesse, pardon this young priest, he comes out from his village and he is still imbued with certain prejudices.
—Which we will root out, said the old lady smiling; that shall be the task for us women.