It was evident that the States-general must be convoked. All attempts
on the part of the Court at evasion provoked so loud and so indignant
a burst of feeling from every quarter of France, that Louis XVI
finally resolved on conquering his repugnance and yielding to popular
pressure.
When Brienne resigned the ministry, he engaged Louis to summon
Necker, a banker of Geneva. Necker decided the king to convoke
the States-general, and to determine the mode of convocation, the
notables were summoned. Necker was now prime minister of France. He
was adored by the people, who believed him to be liberal-minded and
honest; and on his influence the Court relied to keep in check and
subordination the third estate, and use its weight as a counterpoise
to that of the nobility and clergy, who had acted so decided a
part in resisting the crown in the equal distribution of taxation.
As the object desired by the Court was to make the two privileged
classes bear their share in the burden, and as the States-general
consisted of three houses, of which two were composed of those
enjoying immunities, it was evident that they would unite against
the wishes of the king and Necker, and the Tiers État. To avoid this,
Necker proposed that the number of those representing the third
estate should equal the number of the noble and clerical delegates
conjointly. The assembly of notables, perceiving the design of the
prime minister, rejected the double representation demanded in
favour of the communes, and the Parliament of Paris declared that
the States-general must be composed in the same manner as in 1614,
when they last met. An assembly of peers, held on the 20th November,
expressed the same sentiment, and the notables were dismissed.
The courtiers were so accustomed to consider their will the rule
of government, that the opinion of the notables, the parliament,
and the peers would have prevailed, had not the necessity of
filling the deficit in the finances inclined the ministry towards
the Tiers État. Necker procured a decree of council deciding the
double representation, on the 27th December; as to the question of
deliberations by orders or by the three houses united, that was
remitted to the decision of the States-general, convoked for the end
of April, 1789.
Although the hopes of the king rested on the third estate, he feared
it. He desired that it should vote taxes; he resolved that it should
do nothing more. Some persons advised him to assemble the States at
Blois, at Orléans, or at Bourges, and to avoid Paris, which would
exert an incalculable influence over the third house. Louis XVI,
however, decided that the assembly should take place at Versailles,
where the splendour of the Court was calculated to overawe the
representatives of the people, and render them complaisant tools of
the royal will.
When, in the autumn of 1788, it became apparent to the whole of
France that a crisis would arrive in the following spring, and that
there would be a struggle between the privileged and the unprivileged
classes, which would end either in the country asserting its rights
and liberties, or in its further and final subjugation, it became
important to those whose representatives occupied the upper houses,
that they should present a compact front to the common enemy--Justice.
The nobility were almost unanimous; but it became daily more apparent
that the second privileged class was by no means so. The Church was
divided into two classes, the upper and the lower clergy, and the
scission between them was almost as sharp as that between the noble
and the roturier. The eyes of the Court were turned on the Church,
which held the scales between the parties, anxious to know whether
its bias would be cast on the side of the third, or of the higher
estate. The bishops and high clergy were stirred into activity, and
became political agents; they exerted their influence on all the
clergy within their sway, to promote the election of candidates
favourable to the _ancien régime_.
The opportunity of acting a part as a political agitator inspired
the Bishop of Évreux, when recovered from his attack of apoplexy,
to make the circuit of his diocese, and by flattery and promises
extended to some, by pressure brought to bear on others, to secure
the election of candidates recommended by himself as partizans of
privilege and abuse. Indeed, his ambition was to be himself elected.
His negotiations had not been as successful as he had anticipated; he
discovered that his clergy were by no means so enthusiastic in their
devotion to the existing state of affairs as were those who largely
profited by them. Some listened to him and respectfully declined to
promise their votes to him or his candidate, others would consider
his lordship’s recommendation, others again would give no answer
one way or another. The bishop was personally unpopular; he had a
domineering manner which offended his clergy, and a tenacity to his
dignity, which rendered him disliked. If a living in his gift were
vacant, he kept it open for six months, and then appointed to it
a priest of another diocese; if he were written to on business by
one of his clergy, he either gave him no answer, or did not reply
for months. Towards the close of his circuit, he arrived at Bernay,
not in the best humour at his ill success, and accepted Berthier’s
invitation to stay at Château Malouve. Thither Lindet was summoned.
Rumours had come to the bishop’s ears that the liberal party
among his clergy, in casting about for a suitable delegate at the
approaching convocation, had mentioned the name of the curé of S.
Cross. No name could possibly have been suggested more calculated
to irritate monseigneur; and the bishop had arrived at Bernay with
a settled determination to crush Lindet. The means were simple: he
had but to sign his name and Lindet was cast adrift; but he must
have some excuse for inhibiting him; and to provide him with this,
Ponce, the _officiel_, was summoned to Bernay. The excuse was,
however, ready, and awaiting his arrival,--an excuse a great deal
more plausible than he had ventured to expect. The bishop had not
been an hour in the château before Foulon had made him acquainted
with ‘a scandal which had compromised Religion and the Church in that
neighbourhood,’ and had told him how that Lindet had received a young
woman into his house at midnight, and had not dismissed her till next
morning, when he had sent her to his brother, the lawyer, to be his
servant.
Now it happened that the incident had caused no scandal in Bernay, as
Foulon had predicted, for the musician had from his window witnessed
what had taken place; Berthier’s character was well known in Bernay,
and the disappearance of Gabrielle had been widely commented upon.
A few malicious persons, perhaps, alluded to the priest’s part in
recovering the girl, as indicating a very unaccountable interest in
her, but the circumstance had roused a deep indignation against
the Intendant in the breasts of the Bernay people, which was not
allayed when it transpired through Lindet, that Madame Berthier, the
protectress of the girl, had been carried off to Paris by soldiers,
to be incarcerated in the Bastille.
When Thomas Lindet reached Château Malouve, he was shown into the
yellow room, once occupied by the afflicted lady, and which Berthier
had surrendered to the prelate as his office during his stay.
Lindet found the bishop seated near the window, at the head of a
long table, beside which sat M. Ponce, acting as his secretary.
Monseigneur de Narbonne bowed stiffly, without rising from his chair,
or removing his biretta; his red face flushed purple as the priest
entered, but gradually resumed its usual ruddy hue.
‘I have received a paper, which M. Ponce will do us the favour of
reading,’ said the bishop in a pompous tone, without raising his eyes
from the table, or for a moment looking the curé full in the face--‘a
paper which contains grave charges of a moral nature against you,
Robert Thomas Lindet--your name is correctly stated, is it not?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘But your brother, the lawyer, is also Robert.’
‘Monseigneur, his name in full is Jean Baptiste Robert.’
‘Then you are both Robert?’
‘Both, my Lord; but I have always been called by my second name.’
‘M. Ponce, will you kindly----’ the bishop bent slightly towards his
officer.
That gentleman rose, and taking up a paper, read in a voice devoid of
expression:--
‘We, the undersigned, did, on the night of September 3, 1788, see a
young girl, Gabrielle André, secretly enter the parsonage of Robert
Thomas Lindet, curé of S. Cross, at Bernay, between the hours of
eleven and twelve at night, the said Robert Thomas Lindet himself
admitting her, and closing and locking the door after her. And we,
the undersigned, have ascertained that the said girl, Gabrielle
André, did remain in the house of the priest that night till the hour
of seven in the morning.’
This document was signed by Foulon, Berthier, Gustave, and Adolphe.
The bishop closed his fingers over his breast, leaned back in
his chair, thrust his feet out under the table, settled his neck
comfortably in his cravat, and looked at Lindet.
The priest grew pale, not with fear, but with indignation.
‘Have you anything to say upon this?’ asked the prelate, blandly.
Lindet flashed a glance at him, and the bishop’s eyes fell instantly.
‘Is this true?’ again asked the bishop, after a pause.
‘Perfectly,’ answered the priest in a hard voice.
‘I ask you whether, or not, you have thereby brought scandal on the
Church?’
‘I do not care.’
‘M. Lindet, please to remember in whose presence you stand.’
‘I am not likely to forget, monseigneur.’
‘Then answer in a becoming way.’
‘My Lord! I ask to see my accusers.’
‘This is no public trial.’
‘I shall not answer till they are brought here face to face with me.’
‘I am your bishop. I insist on your answering me what I ask. You are
contumacious, sir. You forget where you are.’
‘That also,’ said Lindet, ‘I do not forget. I remember but too
distinctly that I am in the house of a man notorious for his crimes,
and whose hospitality you accept. I ask you, my Lord, whether or not
you have thereby brought scandal on the Church.’
The bishop half started out of his chair.
‘This insolence is simply intolerable. To my face----’
‘Better than behind your back. I tell you--the head of the Church in
this diocese, the guardian of religion and morality--that you are
outraging decency by lodging in this polluted den.’
‘Leave my presence this instant,’ said the bishop. ‘Ponce! turn him
out.’
‘No,’ said Lindet, taking a chair, and leaning his hands on the back
to steady himself, for his limbs trembled with excitement; ‘no,
monseigneur; a charge has been brought against me, a slur has been
cast on my character, and I ask to meet my accusers face to face.’
‘Pardon me!’ The door opened, and Foulon stepped in, bearing some
peaches on a leaf. ‘My dear Lord, I must positively offer you this
fruit, the very last on the tree. I thought all were gone, but these
are so luscious. Pray accept them.’
Lindet faced him instantly, with abruptness.
‘Monsieur Foulon, I am glad you are here.’
‘Ah, ha! my dear curé. Sly fellow! Do you remember the pretty little
peasantess? Well, I allow she was pretty, bewitching enough to have
captivated a saint, therefore quite excusable in a curé to have been
ensnared.’
‘Monsieur Foulon!’ said the prelate with dignity, ruffling up, and
throwing a tone of reprimand into his voice.
‘I beg your lordship’s pardon a thousand times, but he is too sly. He
amuses me infinitely.’
Thomas Lindet had much difficulty in controlling his naturally quick
temper. He gripped the back of the chair with nervous force, and his
lips whitened and trembled.
‘I know you will allow me,’ said Foulon, withdrawing the chair; and
bringing it to the table, he seated himself upon it.
Lindet, standing without support, shook like a leaf in the wind. He
folded his arms on his breast, and pressed them tightly against it,
to keep down the bounding heart.
‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘this person has charged me with having
received a poor girl into my house.’
‘I saw her slip in, and I heard you bolt the door after her,’ said
Foulon; ‘you did not suppose that anyone would be about at midnight,
eh?’
‘Was she a relation?’ asked the bishop.
‘She was not, my Lord,’ answered the curé.
‘A relative of your housekeeper?’
‘No.’
‘Who was she?’
‘She was a poor orphan girl, whom Madame Berthier, that person’s
daughter, had entrusted to my charge, to protect her from M.
Berthier. The child was in danger here----’
‘Excuse me,’ said Foulon in a grave tone, addressing himself to the
bishop, ‘is this curé to bring charges of such a nature as this
against my son-in-law, in his own house?’
‘You are right,’ answered Monseigneur de Narbonne; ‘I insist on you,
M. Lindet, exculpating yourself without slandering others.’
‘M. Foulon,’ said the priest, turning upon the old gentleman, then
engrossed in snuffing; ‘you know that what I say is true. You know
that the child was decoyed into this house by your son-in-law; you
know that your own daughter stood between her and her would-be
destroyer.’
‘He is mad,’ said Foulon, calmly. ‘Dear, dear me!’
Lindet could endure no more; his blood boiled up, and the suppressed
passion blazed into action. He sprang upon the imperturbable old man,
and caught him by the shoulders, and forced him round in his chair to
face him.
‘Take some snuff,’ said Foulon, extending his box.
‘Deny what I have said, if you dare!’
‘Certainly not; I will deny nothing. Of course the girl was brought
here; of course my Imogène stood between her and ruin; of course
she besought you to stand protector to the child;--there, does that
satisfy you? I grant all, you see, now be calm. Always say “yes, yes”
to a maniac; it is safest,’ he added, aside to the bishop.
‘I think,’ said Monseigneur de Narbonne, ‘that I have heard quite
enough of this,--enough to satisfy me that M. Lindet is not a fit
person to minister in my diocese. I will trouble you,’ he added,
turning to M. Ponce, ‘to give me that paper you have been so
diligently and kindly drawing up for me. I must inform you,’ he said,
turning his face towards Lindet, ‘that I withdraw your licence, and
inhibit you from performing any ecclesiastical function within my
jurisdiction till further notice.’
He took the paper from his secretary, and in a bold hand signed
it--‘F. EBRO.’
‘You condemn and punish me, you destroy my character, and ruin me,
without investigating the charge laid against me,’ said the priest.
‘You have acknowledged that the charge is substantially correct.’
‘I have not acknowledged it, nor can you prove that my moral
character is thereby affected.’
‘I am quite satisfied that you are greatly to blame,’ said the
bishop. ‘I will not hold a public investigation, because it would
only increase the scandal, and I desire to spare you and the Church
that shame. I am satisfied that you are to blame; that is enough.’
‘I demand a thorough investigation,’ said the curé, with great
firmness.
‘You may demand one,’ answered the bishop, ‘but you shall not get
one.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Lindet; ‘I am to be ruined, and to be deprived of
the means of clearing myself!’
‘_I_ am satisfied,’ said the bishop, drawing himself up.
‘But I am not,’ retorted the priest.
The bishop bowed stiffly, and then turning to M. Ponce, said: ‘I
think we will proceed with other business. Good morning, M. Lindet.
Here is your inhibition.’
The curé stood silent for a moment, looking first at the secretary,
then at Foulon, who was engaged in pouring snuff into his palm; then
at the bishop, who had taken up one of the peaches, and with a silver
pocket-knife was pealing it.
‘My lord bishop!’ said Lindet, ‘hear what I say. We, the priests of
the Church of France, have groaned under an intolerable oppression:
we have been subject, without redress, to the whims and caprices of
the bishop; neither justice nor liberty has been accorded us. I shall
resist this treatment. I shall not submit to be crushed without a
struggle. I appeal to the law.’
‘You have no appeal,’ said the prelate, coldly; ‘you are a mere
curate,--a stipendiary curate, and not an incumbent; the incumbent is
under the protection of the law, the curate is removable at the will
of the bishop.’
Lindet paused again.
‘These peaches are delicious,’ said the bishop to Foulon.
‘Then,’ said the curé, ‘I appeal to the country against
ecclesiastical tyranny. You spiritual lords, with your cringing
subserviency to the crown, with your utter worldliness, with your
obstructiveness to all religious movement in your dioceses, with
your tenacious adherence to abuses, and with your arbitrary despotic
treatment of your clergy, have taught us to hate the name of
Establishment; to cry to God and the people to destroy a monstrous,
odious sham, and restore to the Church its primitive independence. I
wait the assembly of the States-general, at which the clergy shall
have a voice; and then, my Lord, then I shall speak, and you _shall_
hear me.’
He turned abruptly on his heel, and left the room.