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 unfruitful _things_ of 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 knew _what 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."
LXXXIII.
CONVENTICLE.
"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 the _Sweet 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 the
Seminary. 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. Dear _Sweet 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 the _Sweet 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....
LXXXIV.
AT THE PALACE.
"This world is a great ball where fools, disguised
Under the laughable names of Eminence and Highness
Think to swell out their being and exalt their baseness
In 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 of _valet de chambre_ with 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 added _in petto_, we shall not disturb ourselves
for a junior like you.
--Can I speak with _Monseigneur_ the 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.
LXXXV.
LITTLE PASTIMES.
"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 no _but, Monseigneur_. It is the condition _sine qua non_ of
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 your _Confiteor_; 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 desire
But 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 Monsieur
Matou 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?
LXXXVI.
SERIOUS TALK.
"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 your
Lordship.
--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.
LXXXVII.
THE SEMINARY.
"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 announce _the good news_
to 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 the _Sweet 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.