THE CONFESSIONAL
Nothing could be more gloomy than the appearance of St. Merely Church, on
this dark and snowy winter's day. Frances stopped a moment beneath the
porch, to behold a lugubrious spectacle.
While a priest was mumbling some words in a low voice, two or three dirty
choristers, in soiled surplices, were charting the prayers for the dead,
with an absent and sullen air, round a plain deal coffin, followed only
by a sobbing old man and a child, miserably clad. The beadle and the
sacristan, very much displeased at being disturbed for so wretched a
funeral, had not deigned to put on their liveries, but, yawning with
impatience, waited for the end of the ceremony, so useless to the
interests of the establishment. At length, a few drops of holy water
being sprinkled on the coffin, the priest handed the brush to the beadle,
and retired.
Then took place one of those shameful scenes, the necessary consequence
of an ignoble and sacrilegious traffic, so frequent with regard to the
burials of the poor, who cannot afford to pay for tapers, high mass, or
violins--for now St. Thomas Aquinas' Church has violins even for the
dead.
The old man stretched forth his hand to the sacristan to receive the
brush. "Come, look sharp!" said that official, blowing on his fingers.
The emotion of the old man was profound, and his weakness extreme; he
remained for a moment without stirring, while the brush was clasped
tightly in his trembling hand. In that coffin was his daughter, the
mother of the ragged child who wept by his side--his heart was breaking
at the thought of that last farewell; he stood motionless, and his bosom
heaved with convulsive sobs.
"Now, will you make haste?" said the brutal beadle. "Do you think we are
going to sleep here?"
The old man quickened his movements. He made the sign of the cross over
the corpse, and, stooping down, was about to place the brush in the hand
of his grandson, when the sacristan, thinking the affair had lasted long
enough, snatched the sprinkling-brush from the child, and made a sign to
the bearers to carry away the coffin--which was immediately done.
"Wasn't that old beggar a slow coach?" said the beadle to his companion,
as they went back to the sacristy. "We shall hardly have time to get
breakfast, and to dress ourselves for the bang-up funeral of this
morning. That will be something like a dead man, that's worth the
trouble. I shall shoulder my halberd in style!"
"And mount your colonel's epaulets, to throw dust in the eyes of the
women that let out the chairs--eh, you old rascal!" said the other, with
a sly look.
"What can I do, Capillare? When one has a fine figure, it must be seen,"
answered the beadle, with a triumphant air. "I cannot blind the women to
prevent their losing their hearts!"
Thus conversing; the two men reached the sacristy. The sight of the
funeral had only increased the gloom of Frances. When she entered the
church, seven or eight persons, scattered about upon chairs, alone
occupied the damp and icy building. One of the distributors of holy
water, an old fellow with a rubicund, joyous, wine-bibbing face, seeing
Frances approach the little font, said to her in a low voice: "Abbe
Dubois is not yet in his box. Be quick, and you will have the first wag
of his beard."
Though shocked at this pleasantry, Frances thanked the irreverent
speaker, made devoutly the sign of the cross, advanced some steps into
the church, and knelt down upon the stones to repeat the prayer, which
she always offered up before approaching the tribunal of penance. Having
said this prayer, she went towards a dark corner of the church, in which
was an oaken confessional, with a black curtain drawn across the grated
door. The places on each side were vacant; so Frances knelt down in that
upon the right hand, and remained there for some time absorbed in bitter
reflections.
In a few minutes, a priest of tall stature, with gray hair and a stern
countenance, clad in a long black cassock, stalked slowly along one of
the aisles of the church. A short, old, misshapen man, badly dressed,
leaning upon an umbrella, accompanied him, and from time to time
whispered in his ear, when the priest would stop to listen with a
profound and respectful deference.
As they approached the confessional, the short old man, perceiving
Frances on her knees, looked at the priest with an air of interrogation.
"It is she," said the clergyman.
"Well, in two or three hours, they will expect the two girls at St.
Mary's Convent. I count upon it," said the old man.
"I hope so, for the sake of their souls," answered the priest; and,
bowing gravely, he entered the confessional. The short old man quitted
the church.
This old man was Rodin. It was on leaving Saint Merely's that he went to
the lunatic asylum, to assure himself that Dr. Baleinier had faithfully
executed his instructions with regard to Adrienne de Cardoville.
Frances was still kneeling in the interior of the confessional. One of
the slides opened, and a voice began to speak. It was that of the priest,
who, for the last twenty years had been the confessor of Dagobert's wife,
and exercised over her an irresistible and all-powerful influence.
"You received my letter?" said the voice.
"Yes, father.
"Very well--I listen to you."
"Bless me, father--for I have sinned!" said Frances.
The voice pronounced the formula of the benediction. Dagobert's wife
answered "amen," as was proper, said her confider to "It is my fault,"
gave an account of the manner in which she had performed her last
penance, and then proceeded to the enumeration of the new sins, committed
since she had received absolution.
For this excellent woman, a glorious martyr of industry and maternal
love, always fancied herself sinning: her conscience was incessantly
tormented by the fear that she had committed some incomprehensible
offence. This mild and courageous creature, who, after a whole life of
devotion, ought to have passed what time remained to her in calm serenity
of soul, looked upon herself as a great sinner, and lived in continual
anxiety, doubting much her ultimate salvation.
"Father," said Frances, in a trembling voice, "I accuse myself of
omitting my evening prayer the day before yesterday. My husband, from
whom I had been separated for many years, returned home. The joy and the
agitation caused by his arrival, made me commit this great sin."
"What next?" said the voice, in a severe tone, which redoubled the poor
woman's uneasiness.
"Father, I accuse myself of falling into the same sin yesterday evening.
I was in a state of mortal anxiety, for my son did not come home as
usual, and I waited for him minute after minute, till the hour had passed
over."
"What next?" said the voice.
"Father, I accuse myself of having told a falsehood all this week to my
son, by letting him think that on account of his reproaching me for
neglecting my health, I had taken a little wine for my dinner--whereas I
had left it for him, who has more need of it, because he works so much."
"Go on!" said the voice.
"Father, I accuse myself of a momentary want of resignation this morning,
when I learned that my poor son was arrested; instead of submitting with
respect and gratitude to this new trial which the Lord hath sent
me--alas! I rebelled against it in my grief--and of this I accuse
myself."
"A bad week," said the priest, in a tone of still greater severity, "a
bad week--for you have always put the creature before the Creator. But
proceed!"
"Alas, father!" resumed Frances, much dejected, "I know that I am a great
sinner; and I fear that I am on the road to sins of a still graver kind."
"Speak!"
"My husband brought with him from Siberia two young orphans, daughters of
Marshal Simon. Yesterday morning, I asked them to say their prayers, and
I learned from them, with as much fright as sorrow, that they know none
of the mysteries of our holy faith, though they are fifteen years old.
They have never received the sacrament, nor are they even baptized,
father--not even baptized!"
"They must be heathens!" cried the voice, in a tone of angry surprise.
"That is what so much grieves me, father; for, as I and my husband are in
the room of parents to these young orphans, we should be guilty of the
sins which they might commit--should we not, father?"
"Certainly,--since you take the place of those who ought to watch over
their souls. The shepherd must answer for his flock," said the voice.
"And if they should happen to be in mortal sin, father, I and my husband
would be in mortal sin?"
"Yes," said the voice; "you take the place of their parents; and fathers
and mothers are guilty of all the sins which their children commit when
those sins arise from the want of a Christian education."
"Alas, father! what am I to do? I address myself to you as I would to
heaven itself. Every day, every hour, that these poor young girls remain
heathens, may contribute to bring about their eternal damnation, may it
not, father?" said Frances, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
"Yes," answered the voice; "and the weight of this terrible
responsibility rests upon you and your husband; you have the charge of
souls!"
"Lord, have mercy upon me!" said Frances weeping.
"You must not grieve yourself thus," answered the voice, in a softer
tone; "happily for these unfortunates, they have met you upon the way.
They, will have in you and your husband good and pious examples--for I
suppose that your husband, though formerly an ungodly person, now
practices his religious duties!"
"We must pray for him, father," said Frances, sorrowfully; "grace has not
yet touched his heart. He is like my poor child, who has also not been
called to holiness. Ah, father!" said Frances, drying her tears, "these
thoughts are my heaviest cross."
"So neither your husband nor your son practises," resumed the voice, in a
tone of reflection; "this is serious--very serious. The religious
education of these two unfortunate girls has yet to begin. In your house,
they will have ever before them the most deplorable examples. Take care!
I have warned you. You have the charge of souls--your responsibility is
immense!"
"Father, it is that which makes me wretched--I am at a loss what to do.
Help me, and give me your counsels: for twenty years your voice has been
to me as the voice of the Lord."
"Well! you must agree with your husband to send these unfortunate girls
to some religious house where they may be instructed."
"We are too poor, father, to pay for their schooling, and unfortunately
my son has just been put in prison for songs that he wrote."
"Behold the fruit of impiety," said the voice, severely; "look at
Gabriel! he has followed my counsels, and is now the model of every
Christian virtue."
"My son, Agricola, has had good qualities, father; he is so kind, so
devoted!"
"Without religion," said the voice, with redoubled severity, "what you
call good qualities are only vain appearances; at the least breath of the
devil they will disappear--for the devil lurks in every soul that has no
religion."
"Oh! my poor son!" said Frances, weeping; "I pray for him every day, that
faith may enlighten him."
"I have always told you," resumed the voice, "that you have been too weak
with him. God now punishes you for it. You should have parted from this
irreligious son, and not sanctioned his impiety by loving him as you do.
'If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,' saith the Scripture."
"Alas, father! you know it is the only time I have disobeyed you; but I
could not bring myself to part from my son."
"Therefore is your salvation uncertain--but God is merciful. Do not fall
into the same fault with regard to these young girls, whom Providence has
sent you, that you might save them from eternal damnation. Do not plunge
them into it by your own culpable indifference."
"Oh, father! I have wept and prayed for them."
"That is not sufficient. These unfortunate children cannot have any
notion of good or evil. Their souls must be an abyss of scandal and
impurity--brought up as they have been, by an impious mother, and a
soldier devoid of religion."
"As for that, father," said Frances, with simplicity, "they are gentle as
angels, and my husband, who has not quitted them since their birth,
declares they have the best hearts in the world."
"Your husband has dwelt all his life in mortal sin," said the voice,
harshly; "how can he judge of the state of souls? I repeat to you, that
as you represent the parents of these unfortunates, it is not to-morrow,
but it is today, and on the instant, that you must labor for their
salvation, if you would not incur a terrible responsibility."
"It is true--I know it well, father--and I suffer as much from this fear
as from grief at my son's arrest. But what is to be done? I could not
instruct these young girls at home--for I have not the knowledge--I have
only faith--and then my poor husband, in his blindness, makes game of
sacred things, which my son, at least, respects in my presence, out of
regard for me. Then, once more, father, come to my aid, I conjure you!
Advise me: what is to be done?"
"We cannot abandon these two young souls to frightful perdition," said
the voice, after a moment's silence: "there are not two ways of saving
them: there is only one, and that is to place them in a religious house,
where they may be surrounded by good and pious examples."
"Oh, father! if we were not so poor, or if I could still work, I would
try to gain sufficient to pay for their board, and do for them as I did
for Gabriel. Unfortunately, I have quite lost my sight; but you, father,
know some charitable souls, and if you could get any of them to interest
them, selves for these poor orphans--"
"Where is their father?"
"He was in India; but, my husband tells me, he will soon be in France.
That, however, is uncertain. Besides, it would make my heart bleed to see
those poor children share our misery--which will soon be extreme--for we
only live by my son's labor."
"Have these girls no relation here?" asked the voice.
"I believe not, father."
"It was their mother who entrusted them to your husband, to bring them to
France?"
"Yes, father; he was obliged to set out yesterday for Chartres, on some
very pressing business, as he told me."
It will be remembered that Dagobert had not thought fit to inform his
wife of the hopes which the daughters of Marshall Simon founded on the
possession of the medal, and that he had particularly charged them not to
mention these hopes, even to Frances.
"So," resumed the voice, after a pause of some moments' duration, "your
husband is not in Paris."
"No, father; but he will doubtless return this evening or to-morrow
morning."
"Listen to me," said the voice, after another pause. "Every minute lost
for those two young girls is a new step on the road to perdition. At any
moment the hand of God may smite them, for He alone knows the hour of our
death; and were they to die in the state in which they now are, they
would most probably be lost to all eternity. This very day, therefore,
you must open their eyes to the divine light, and place them in a
religious house. It is your duty--it should be your desire!"
"Oh, yes, father; but, unfortunately, I am too poor, as I have already
told you."
"I know it--you do not want for zeal or faith--but even were you capable
of directing these young girls, the impious examples of your husband and
son would daily destroy your work. Others must do for these orphans, in
the name of Christian charity, that which you cannot do, though you are
answerable for them before heaven."
"Oh, father! if, thanks to you, this good work could be accomplished, how
grateful I should be!"
"It is not impossible. I know the superior of a convent, where these
young girls would be instructed as they ought. The charge for their board
would be diminished in consideration of their poverty; but, however
small, it must be paid and there would be also an outfit to furnish. All
that would be too dear for you."
"Alas! yes, father."
"But, by taking a little from my poor-box, and by applying to one or two
generous persons, I think I shall be able to complete the necessary sum,
and so get the young girls received at the convent."
"Ah, father! you are my deliverer, and these children's."
"I wish to be so--but, in the interest of their salvation, and to make
these measures really efficacious, I must attach some conditions to the
support I offer you."
"Name them, father; they are accepted beforehand. Your commands shall be
obeyed in everything."
"First of all, the children must be taken this very morning to the
convent, by my housekeeper, to whom you must bring them almost
immediately."
"Nay, father; that is impossible!" cried Frances.
"Impossible? why?"
"In the absence of my husband--"
"Well?"
"I dare not take a such a step without consulting him."
"Not only must you abstain from consulting him, but the thing must be
done during his absence."
"What, father? should I not wait for his return?"
"No, for two reasons," answered the priest, sternly: "first, because his
hardened impiety would certainly lead him to oppose your pious
resolution; secondly, because it is indispensable that these young girls
should break off all connection with your husband, who, therefore, must
be left in ignorance of the place of their retreat."
"But, father," said Frances, a prey to cruel doubt and embarrassment, "it
is to my husband that these children were entrusted--and to dispose of
them without his consent would be--"
"Can you instruct these children at your house--yes or no?" interrupted
the voice.
"No, father, I cannot."
"Are they exposed to fall into a state of final impenitence by remaining
with you--yes or no?"
"Yes, father, they are so exposed."
"Are you responsible, as you take the place of their parents, for the
mortal sins they may commit--yes or no?"
"Alas, father! I am responsible before God."
"Is it in the interest of their eternal salvation that I enjoin you to
place them this very day in a convent?"
"It is for their salvation, father."
"Well, then, choose!"
"But tell me, I entreat you, father if I have the right to dispose of
them without the consent of my husband?"
"The right! you have not only the right, but it is your sacred duty.
Would you not be bound, I ask you, to rescue these unfortunate creatures
from a fire, against the will of your husband, or during his absence?
Well! you must now rescue them, not from a fire that will only consume
the body, but from one in which their souls would burn to all eternity."
"Forgive me, I implore you, father," said the poor woman, whose
indecision and anguish increased every minute; "satisfy my doubts!--How
can I act thus, when I have sworn obedience to my husband?"
"Obedience for good--yes--but never for evil. You confess, that, were it
left to him, the salvation of these orphans would be doubtful, and
perhaps impossible."
"But, father," said Frances, trembling, "when my husband returns, he will
ask me where are these children? Must I tell him a falsehood?"
"Silence is not falsehood; you will tell him that you cannot answer his
question."
"My husband is the kindest of men; but such an answer will drive him
almost mad. He has been a soldier, and his anger will be terrible,
father," said Frances, shuddering at the thought.
"And were his anger a hundred times more terrible, you should be proud to
brave it in so sacred a cause!" cried the voice, with indignation. "Do
you think that salvation is to be so easily gained on earth? Since when
does the sinner, that would walk in the way of the Lord, turn aside for
the stones and briars that may bruise and tear him?"
"Pardon, father, pardon!" said Frances, with the resignation of despair.
"Permit me to ask one more question, one only. Alas! if you do not guide
me, how shall I find the way?"
"Speak!"
"When Marshal Simon arrives, he will ask his children of my husband. What
answer can he then give to their father?"
"When Marshal Simon arrives, you will let me know immediately, and
then--I will see what is to be done. The rights of a father are only
sacred in so far as he make use of them for the salvation of his
children. Before and above the father on earth, is the Father in heaven,
whom we must first serve. Reflect upon all this. By accepting what I
propose to you, these young girls will be saved from perdition; they will
not be at your charge; they will not partake of your misery; they will be
brought up in a sacred institution, as, after all, the daughters of a
Marshal of France ought to be--and, when their father arrives at Paris,
if he be found worthy of seeing them again, instead of finding poor,
ignorant, half savage heathens, he will behold two girls, pious, modest,
and well informed, who, being acceptable with the Almighty, may invoke
His mercy for their father, who, it must be owned, has great need of
it--being a man of violence, war, and battle. Now decide! Will you, on
peril of your soul, sacrifice the welfare of these girls in this world
and the next, because of an impious dread of your husband's anger?"
Though rude and fettered by intolerance, the confessor's language was
(taking his view of the case) reasonable and just, because the honest
priest was himself convinced of what he said; a blind instrument of
Rodin, ignorant of the end in view, he believed firmly, that, in forcing
Frances to place these young girls in a convent, he was performing a
pious duty. Such was, and is, one of the most wonderful resources of the
order to which Rodin belonged--to have for accomplices good and sincere
people, who are ignorant of the nature of the plots in which they are the
principal actors.
Frances, long accustomed to submit to the influence of her confessor,
could find nothing to object to his last words. She resigned herself to
follow his directions, though she trembled to think of the furious anger
of Dagobert, when he should no longer find the children that a dying
mother had confided to his care. But, according to the priest's opinion,
the more terrible this anger might appear to her, the more she would show
her pious humility by exposing herself to it.
"God's will be done, father!" said she, in reply to her confessor.
"Whatever may happen, I wilt do my duty as a Christian--in obedience to
your commands."
"And the Lord will reward you for what you may have to suffer in the
accomplishment of this meritorious act. You promise then, before God,
that you will not answer any of your husband's questions, when he asks
you for the daughters of Marshal Simon?"
"Yes, father, I promise!" said Frances, with a shudder.
"And will preserve the same silence towards Marshal Simon himself, in
case he should return, before his daughters appear to me sufficiently
grounded in the faith to be restored to him?"
"Yes, father," said Frances, in a still fainter voice.
"You will come and give me an account of the scene that takes place
between you and your husband, upon his return?"
"Yes, father; when must I bring the orphans to your house?"
"In an hour. I will write to the superior, and leave the letter with my
housekeeper. She is a trusty person, and will conduct the young girls to
the convent."
After she had listened to the exhortations of her confessor, and received
absolution for her late sins, on condition of performing penance,
Dagobert's wife left the confessional.
The church was no longer deserted. An immense crowd pressed into it,
drawn thither by the pomp of the grand funeral of which the beadle had
spoken to the sacristan two hours before. It was with the greatest
difficulty that Frances could reach the door of the church, now hung with
sumptuous drapery.
What a contrast to the poor and humble train, which had that morning so
timidly presented themselves beneath the porch!
The numerous clergy of the parish, in full procession, advanced
majestically to receive the coffin covered with a velvet pall; the
watered silks and stuffs of their copes and stoles, their splendid
silvered embroideries, sparkled in the light of a thousand tapers. The
beadle strutted in all the glory of his brilliant uniform and flashing
epaulets; on the opposite side walked in high glee the sacristan,
carrying his whalebone staff with a magisterial air; the voice of the
choristers, now clad in fresh, white surplices, rolled out in bursts of
thunder; the trumpets' blare shook the windows; and upon the countenances
of all those who were to have a share in the spoils of this rich corpse,
this excellent corpse, this first-class corpse, a look of satisfaction
was visible, intense and yet subdued, which suited admirably with the air
and attitude of the two heirs, tall, vigorous fellows with florid
complexions, who, without overstepping the limits of a charming modesty
of enjoyment, seemed to cuddle and hug themselves most comfortably in
their mourning cloaks.
Notwithstanding her simplicity and pious faith, Dagobert's wife was
painfully impressed with this revolting difference between the reception
of the rich and the poor man's coffin at the door of the house of
God--for surely, if equality be ever real, it is in the presence of death
and eternity!
The two sad spectacles she had witnessed, tended still further to depress
the spirits of Frances. Having succeeded with no small trouble in making
her way out of the church, she hastened to return to the Rue Brise-Miche,
in order to fetch the orphans and conduct them to the housekeeper of her
confessor, who was in her turn to take them to St. Mary's Convent.
situated, as we know, next door to Dr. Baleinier's lunatic-asylum, in
which--Adrienne de Cardoville was confined.