Too pious to admit the possibility of magic, Doña Elvira sent for the
Abbot of San Lucas. When the priest saw the miracle with his own eyes he
resolved to profit by it, like a man of sense, and like an abbot who asked
nothing better than to increase his revenues. Declaring that Don Juan must
inevitably be canonized, he appointed his monastery for the ceremony of
the apotheosis. The monastery, he said, should henceforth be called "San
Juan de Lucas." At these words the head made a facetious grimace.
The taste of the Spaniards for this sort of solemnities is so well known
that it should not be difficult to imagine the religious spectacle with
which the abbey of San Lucas celebrated the translation of "the blessed
Don Juan Belvidéro" in its church. A few days after the death of this
illustrious nobleman, the miracle of his partial resurrection had been so
thoroughly spread from village to village throughout a circle of more than
fifty leagues round San Lucas that it was as good as a play to see the
curious people on the road. They came from all sides, drawn by the
prospect of a "Te Deum" chanted by the light of burning torches. The
ancient mosque of the monastery of San Lucas, a wonderful building,
erected by the Moors, which for three hundred years had resounded with the
name of Jesus Christ instead of Allah, could not hold the crowd which was
gathered to view the ceremony. Packed together like ants, the hidalgos in
velvet mantles and armed with their good swords stood round the pillars,
unable to find room to bend their knees, which they never bent elsewhere.
Charming peasant women, whose dresses set off the beautiful lines of their
figures, gave their arms to white-haired old men. Youths with glowing eyes
found themselves beside old women decked out in gala dress. There were
couples trembling with pleasure, curious-fiancées, led thither by their
sweethearts, newly married couples and frightened children, holding one
another by the hand. All this throng was there, rich in colors, brilliant
in contrast, laden with flowers, making a soft tumult in the silence of
the night. The great doors of the church opened.
Those who, having come too late, were obliged to stay outside, saw in the
distance, through the three open doors, a scene of which the tawdry
decorations of our modern operas can give but a faint idea. Devotees and
sinners, intent upon winning the favor of a new saint, lighted thousands
of candles in his honor inside the vast church, and these scintillating
lights gave a magical aspect to the edifice. The black arcades, the
columns with their capitals, the recessed chapels glittering with gold and
silver, the galleries, the Moorish fretwork, the most delicate features of
this delicate carving, were all revealed in the dazzling brightness like
the fantastic figures which are formed in a glowing fire. It was a sea of
light, surmounted at the end of the church by the gilded choir, where the
high altar rose in glory, which rivaled the rising sun. But the
magnificence of the golden lamps, the silver candlesticks, the banners,
the tassels, the saints and the "ex voto" paled before the reliquary in
which Don Juan lay. The body of the blasphemer was resplendent with gems,
flowers, crystals, diamonds, gold, and plumes as white as the wings of a
seraphim; it replaced a picture of Christ on the altar. Around him burned
wax candles, which threw out waves of light. The good Abbot of San Lucas,
clad in his pontifical robes, with his jeweled mitre, his surplice and his
golden crozier reclined, king of the choir, in a large armchair, amid all
his clergy, who were impassive men with silver hair, and who surrounded
him like the confessing saints whom the painters group round the Lord. The
precentor and the dignitaries of the order, decorated with the glittering
insignia of their ecclesiastical vanities, came and went among the clouds
of incense like planets revolving in the firmament.
When the hour of triumph was come the chimes awoke the echoes of the
countryside, and this immense assembly raised its voice to God in the
first cry of praise which begins the "Te Deum."
Sublime exultation! There were voices pure and high, ecstatic women's
voices, blended with the deep sonorous tones of the men, thousands of
voices so powerful that they drowned the organ in spite of the bellowing
of its pipes. The shrill notes of the choir-boys and the powerful rhythm
of the basses inspired pretty thoughts of the combination of childhood and
strength in this delightful concert of human voices blended in an
outpouring of love.
"Te Deum laudamus!"
In the midst of this cathedral, black with kneeling men and women, the
chant burst forth like a light which gleams suddenly in the night, and the
silence was broken as by a peal of thunder. The voices rose with the
clouds of incense which threw diaphanous, bluish veils over the quaint
marvels of the architecture. All was richness, perfume, light and melody.
At the moment at which this symphony of love and gratitude rolled toward
the altar, Don Juan, too polite not to express his thanks and too witty
not to appreciate a jest, responded by a frightful laugh, and straightened
up in his reliquary. But, the devil having given him a hint of the danger
he ran of being taken for an ordinary man, for a saint, a Boniface or a
Pantaléon, he interrupted this harmony of love by a shriek in which the
thousand voices of hell joined. Earth lauded, heaven condemned. The church
trembled on its ancient foundations.
"Te Deum laudamus!" sang the crowd.
"Go to the devil, brute beasts that you are! 'Carajos demonios!' Beasts!
what idiots you are with your God!"
And a torrent of curses rolled forth like a stream of burning lava at an
eruption of Vesuvius.
"'Deus sabaoth! sabaoth'!" cried the Christians.
Then the living arm was thrust out of the reliquary and waved
threateningly over the assembly with a gesture full of despair and irony.
"The saint is blessing us!" said the credulous old women, the children and
the young maids.
It is thus that we are often deceived in our adorations. The superior man
mocks those who compliment him, and compliments those whom he mocks in the
depths of his heart.
When the Abbot, bowing low before the altar, chanted: "'Sancte Johannes,
ora pro nobis'!" he heard distinctly: "'O coglione'!"
"What is happening up there?" cried the superior, seeing the reliquary
move.
"The saint is playing devil!" replied the Abbot.
At this the living head tore itself violently away from the dead body and
fell upon the yellow pate of the priest.
"Remember, Doña Elvira!" cried the head, fastening its teeth in the head
of the Abbot.
The latter gave a terrible shriek, which threw the crowd into a panic. The
priests rushed to the assistance of their chief.
"Imbecile! Now say that there is a God!" cried the voice, just as the
Abbot expired.