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.
LXXX.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
"Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek
Doth blend the tints of cream and rose.
And lends the pearls which deck her hat
And rubies too from off her gown,
To be your own fit ornament."
E. DARIO (_Strophes_).
Before the _Hôtel des Messageries_, a young girl, modestly dressed, was
waiting for the _diligence_, 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 at
Epinal.
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 the _diligence_; allured by the
sight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same time _litanies_,
_paters_ and _aves_ in undefinable accents and in lamentable voices.
Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a few _sous_ among 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 the
Communion, which I had not done for a long time.
--That is well, said Ridoux.
The _diligence_ had 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 the _gendarmes_.
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 in _tableaux vivants_ and _poses
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 Holy
Virgin.
--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.
LXXXI.
A LITTLE CONFESSION
"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 the _gendarmes_. 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:
the _Hôtel 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 the _Society 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.
LXXXII.
THE CHURCH-WOMAN.
"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."
MME. DE REUX.
As _his uncle_ had 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 scarcely _venture_ any 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 called _lending 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 is _good 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 mutter _Paternosters_, devoid
of meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vague
sanctimonious contemplation of a _mysterious unknown_.