BISHOP, ARCHBISHOP, AND ANGELICAL DOCTOR
At sight of his master in the boat Jean-aux-Choux turned sharply to the
left. Obviously they must try elsewhere. The way of the sea was shut to
them in front; the enemy was clearly awake and waiting for them there.
The net behind had not had time to be drawn tight, and if the Abbe John
proved successful in deceiving the familiars of the Holy Office, it
would not close. Still, there was every reason for haste. There was no
disguising that fact.
Passing behind the town walls as swiftly as might be, with the burden of
Madame Amelie in their arms, Jean-aux-Choux halted the brothers for a
while in lee of a sheepfold with walls high enough for a fort. Then,
passing within, he appeared presently with two poles and a piece of
sacking, out of which he extemporised a carrying hammock. He and his
comrades used it for carrying down to their huts and shelters such
wounded sheep or weakly lambs as they found high up among the mountains,
that they might be tended back to health again.
The Senora was a little woman--a mere "rickle of bones," in Jean's
Scottish phrase, and hardly heavier than a stout six months' lamb.
Indeed, so much had the flesh faded under the strain of her constant
activity, that the restless spirit within seemed to pulse and throb
under the frail envelope like a new-taken bird.
Jean-aux-Choux took the head. The brothers relieved each other at the
feet--that is to say, the Miller-Alcalde and Don Jordy. After one
attempt, the Professor acknowledged that the chair of the Sorbonne had
unfitted him for such exercise upon the mountains.
They crossed the Elne road only a few minutes before the familiars, with
the false maid mounted on Don Jordy's white mule, went past peaceably,
trekking their way towards Perpignan and the Street of the Money.
It was clearly unsafe to continue. Yet what else to do? They crouched
behind a pillar-rock (what in Celtic lands of Ker and Pol and Tre would
have been a menhir) and listened. There came the sound of hoofs, the
jingle of a bridle. A white shape skirted with well-accustomed feet the
phosphorescent glimmer of the path, wet with dew, and wimpling upwards
towards the summit of the cape.
"My mule--the bishop's mule," muttered Don Jordy. "Oh, the villains!
Food for the _garrotte_!"
Then he comforted himself with thoughts of vengeance.
"Monseigneur will make them deliver," he growled to himself, "for White
Chiquita's pretty sake if not for that of his poor notary. He does not
greatly love the Inquisition at any time. He believes, and with justice,
that it is they and the Jesuits who are striving to take the
see-episcopal from ancient Elne, the Illiberris of the ancients, and
give it to Perpignan--_champignon_ rather, the mushroom growth of a
night."
But Don Jordy's very anathema had given him an idea.
"What if it were possible--that Monseigneur would--yes, he has great
power in what is hidden from the Holy Office. He could keep my mother
safe in his palace till we have the girl in safety. I believe he would
do it for me, his notary and registrar, who have always served both him
and the see with fidelity."
In a low voice he made his proposition to his companions. They should
all go to Elne. He, Don Jordy, would make his way into the palace of my
Lord Bishop. He had the key to a door in the base of the rock, giving
upon stairs that turned and turned till one was almost giddy.
There they would leave Madame Amelie till happier times. In a _tablier_
of white, she might well and naturally bear rule in the episcopal
kitchen, of which the waste and expense had long been a byword.
To this Jean-aux-Choux at first objected. It were best to hasten. All
who were under the ban of the Holy Office must get out of Roussillon
altogether. It was no place for them. For him it was different, of
course. None suspected him. He had his sheep to attend to. For the
present his comrade did what was necessary, believing him employed on
his master's business. Also, if he were to succour and protect the
abandoned bestial and poultry-yard, dear to the Senora, he must return
as swiftly as possible.
Finally, however, he also was brought to see reason.
Indeed, the growing weakness of the old lady seriously disquieted every
one. So much so, indeed, that Don Jordy went on ahead as soon as the
black mass of Elne hunched itself up against the faint pearl-grey sheet
which was hung behind the sand-dunes of Argeles, on the way of the sea.
Grey, pallid day was beginning to break when he returned, having seen
and heard great things.
At first the night-watchman of the little palace had hesitated to
intrude upon the Bishop, who, he said, had company--no other than the
learned Doctor Ange de Pas, so learned that he scrupled not to enter
into dispute with the Vatican itself, so holy that Sixtus V., at first
angered by his stubbornness, finally made a saint of him before his
time, because he was the only man who dared to withstand him face to
face. "Also," said the watchman, "there was another, who had come from
the south with a retinue, now lodged in the cells of the ancient
monastery of the Cordeliers."
"His name?" Don Jordy demanded, fearing lest it should be some great
missioner of the Inquisition on his rounds, in which case he was lost
indeed--and most likely all those who were with him.
"He gave no name," said Leucate the watchman, "and his face was covered.
But he knew this place well, and spoke of Fernand Doria, where certain
of his chief men could put up, and also of the way to the ancient
Convent of the Cordeliers."
This news somewhat reassured Don Jordy, and he bade Leucate carry up his
message. He was immediately bidden to enter into the Bishop's private
apartments. The good Onuphre de Reart, last Bishop of Elne, was a little
smiling man, with a sweet obstinacy in his expression which was not
belied by the good fight he had fought with the Inquisition for the
privileges of the Church in Roussillon and in the diocese of Elne.
Doctor Ange de Pas was, of course, known to Don Jordy, and rose to give
him greeting. But even the holy monk, his hand crisped, as about the
quill with which he wrote his many books, showed certain signs of
nervousness. The Bishop of Elne held up his hand as if to halt Don Jordy
in what he was about to say. Then, going to the purple velvet curtain
which divided his audience-chamber from the bedrooms, he announced in a
clear, unmistakable voice, "My Lord Cardinal Archbishop!"
Upon which, with smiling dignity, there entered the famous Jean Teres
Doria, now Archbishop of Tarragona and Viceroy of all Catalonia, whom
the Infanta of Spain had caused to be thus advanced only four years ago,
because of his treatment of her as Bishop of Elne when her ship was
wrecked on the rocks of Collioure.
"Ah, Don Jorge!" said the great prelate, holding out his hand for the
notary to kiss, "you serve early and late, as of yore. Though I think I
never saw you in my house quite so belated as this."
Then all suddenly, finding himself in the company of three such good and
holy men, all looking so kindly upon him, Don Jordy burst into tears.
The Archbishop Doria stepped quickly up to him, saying, "Don Jordy,
friend of mine, you knew me and I knew you, when I was only your
neighbour and fellow-student, Jean Teres Doria of Elne. Tell me your
sorrow as you would have done, when we fought with burrs and pine-cones
in the groves--I for Elne, and you for the honour of Collioure."
"My mother," said Don Jordy, controlling himself with an effort--"she is
chased from her house by the familiars of the Holy Office. She and all
of us! Only she is old, feeble, pushed beyond her strength. She cannot
go farther, and must lie down and die, if the Bishop will not consent to
receive her into his palace."
And he went on to tell all the story of the Professor's coming, Don
Raphael's suit, and Claire's refusal--lastly, of the warning that had
been given concerning the action of the Inquisition.
It could easily be observed how, at that dread name, even the Archbishop
grew grave. There was no power comparable to that of the Holy Office in
Spain--because the Holy Office was only the King working secretly, doing
lawless things under cover of the ample robe of Mother Church.
But the quiet little Cordelier, the Doctor Ange, with his white skin and
tremulous bird-like hands, only smiled the sweeter as he listened.
"I fear me," he said, "that the Bishop's palace is too public a place
for your mother. Now, what think you? You have with her also your
brother, that learned professor of the Sorbonne, with whom it would
please me much to ravel out many a tangled web of high doctrine,
according to the last interpretation of Paris--why, there is in our new
House of the Cordeliers ample room and space for your mother--as well as
for your brother, who can don our robe for once in a way. My friends
here will doubtless make the matter easier for those of your party
continuing their way to the north. Nay, do not thank me. I shall expect
much joy from the acquaintance of so learned a man as your brother,
though (as I have heard) he mingles too much earthly learning with the
pure doctrine of Saint Thomas Aquinas!"
The Archbishop Doria and his successor in the see of Elne, Bishop
Onuphre, looked at each other, one taking the other's mind.
"It is perhaps as good a solution as any," said the former meditatively;
"however, I judge that you, Don Jorge, had better remain at your post. I
see not wherein even the Holy Office can find matter against you. It is
a pity that I have no control over its working. The King thinks little
of the regular clergy" (at this the little Cordelier laughed). "So that
My Lord Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, Primate of all Spain, is in the
power of the meanest familiar of the Inquisition who may choose to
lodge an information against him. Nevertheless, I possess something of
the Secular Arm in this province, being for the moment Viceroy of the
King. So that, I judge it will be as well--nay, more, it will look
well--that you should go about your ordinary business, sending on your
party with all speed to the frontier. I will give them a protection
under my own hand and seal."
So by this fortunate intervention of the great Doria, Viceroy and
Archbishop, our Claire's path was smoothed France-wards, and Madame
Amelie rested securely in the newly-built annex of the Convent of the
Cordeliers. As to the Professor, her son, he battled daily with Doctor
Ange concerning the opinions of the Angelical Doctor--grace free and
grace conditional, Arianism and Supra-lapsarianism, till Ange de Pas,
who had friends all over the world, produced as a peace-offering the
leaves of a certain curious plant, newly brought from the Western
Indies, the smoke of which, being drunk through a tube and slowly
expelled with the breath, proved a famous composer of quarrels. The
plant was called, he said, nicotiana, but was so rare and expensive
that, had he not had a friend Commander-in-chief of the forces in New
Spain, their philosophic differences might have gone on for ever.
As for the Abbe John, no one knew what had become of him--except, that
is, the Miller-Alcalde Jean-Marie, and he answered nothing to Claire's
question. Because him also the devil tempted.