Did I really hear you say that the prayers of good men are of no...?
However. Goodnight. You will forgive my slipping away now?
So they took their leaves.
I went to bed worried. I was worrying about Astrée-Luce. Was she going
to lose her faith? What do bystanders do in such a case? The loss of
one's faith is always comic to outsiders, especially when the loser is
in fine health, wealth, and a fairly sound mind. The loss of any one or
all of these has a sort of grandeur; Astrée-Luce should have the loss
of her faith depend on one of the others. It's not a thing one loses in
fine weather.
I was wakened from a troubled sleep by a discreet but continuous
knocking upon my door. It was Alviero, the majordomo.
Madame says will you please dress and come to her in the library,
please.
What's the matter, Alviero?
I do not know, Signorino. Madame have not sleeped all night. She have
been in the church hitting the floor.
All right, Alviero, I'll be there in a minute. What time is it?
Three o'clock and one-half, Signorino.
I dressed rapidly and hurried to the library. Astrée-Luce was still in
her gown. Her face was white and drawn; her hair was disheveled. She
came toward me with both hands extended: You will forgive my sending for
you, won't you? I want you to help me. Tell me: were you made unhappy by
the strange things Cardinal Vaini said after dinner?
Yes.
Have you Protestants ideas on these things?
Oh, yes, Mlle de Morfontaine.
Were his ideas new? Is that what everyone is thinking?
No.
Oh, Samuele, what has happened to me! I have sinned. I have sinned the
sin of doubt. Shall I ever have peace again. Can the Lord take me back
after I have had such thoughts? Of course, of course, I believe that my
prayers are answered, but I have lost ... the ... the reason why I
believe it. Surely, there is a key here. Perhaps it's just one word. All
you have to do is find the one little argument that makes the whole
thing natural. Isn't it strange! I've been looking here (and she pointed
at the table which was covered with open books, the Bible, Pascal, the
Imitation) but I don't seem to be able to put my finger on the right
place. Sit down and try and tell me, my dear friend, what arguments
there are that God hears us speak and will answer us.
I talked to her for quite a long while, but achieved nothing. Perhaps I
even made it worse. I told her that I was sure that she still believed.
I showed her that the very fact that she was distressed about it proved
that she was furiously believing. After an hour of this wrestling she
seemed a little comforted, however, and picking up a fur coat went back
to her cold chapel and prayed diligently for faith until the morning.
At about ten she appeared in the garden and asked me to read a note that
she was sending to the Cardinal. I was to pass on it. Dear Cardinal
Vaini, I will always honor you above all my friends. I think you love me
and wish me well. But in your great learning and multiple interests you
have forgotten that we who are not brilliant must cling to our childhood
beliefs as best we may. I have been inexpressibly troubled since
yesterday evening. I want to ask a favor of you: that you indulge my
weakness to the extent of not touching upon matters of belief when I am
with you. It gives me great pain to have to ask you this. I beg of you
to understand it as apart from any personal feelings of unfriendliness.
I hope that I may grow strong enough to talk of these matters with you
again.
It was a very bad letter, but that was perhaps due to the content. I
suggested shyly that she omit the last sentence. So she copied it and
sent it off by a special messenger.
Soon the day came for the end of my stay in the Villa. She came up to my
room for a last talk.
Samuele, you have been with me during the saddest days of my life. I
cannot deny that all interest has gone out of living for me. I still
believe, but I don't believe as I used to. Perhaps it was not right that
I went through life as I did. Now I know that I rose up every morning
full of unspeakable happiness. It seldom left me. I had never thought
before that my beliefs in themselves were unbelievable. I used to boast
that they were, but I did not know what I was saying. Now hours come to
me when I hear a voice saying: There is no prayer. There is no God.
There are people and trees, millions of them both, every moment
dying.--You will come and see me again, won't you, Samuele? Have I made
it very unpleasant for you in the house?
When I reached my rooms in Rome I found three letters from the Cardinal
asking me to come and see him at once. As I entered the gate he came
toward me eagerly:
How is she? Is she well?
No, Father, she is in great trouble.
Come inside, my son. I must speak to you.
When we entered his study, he closed his door behind him, and said with
great emotion: I want to say to you that I have sinned, greatly sinned.
I cannot rest until I have tried to repair the harm I have done. Look,
look at this letter she has written me.
Yes, I have seen it.
Her letter forbids my explaining what I meant. Is there no way I can
reassure her?
There is only one way now. You must regain all her confidence before you
touch on such matters again. You must come and go about her house as
though nothing had happened--
Oh, but she will never ask me again!
Yes, she is having you all to dinner quite soon, Alix, Donna Leda, and
M. Bogard.
Thanks be to God! I thank Thee, I thank Thee, I thank Thee, I thank
Thee ...
May I speak quite boldly, Eminence?
Yes. I am a poor old man, all mistakes. Speak to me as you like.
If you go, take great care not to let slip any remark on religious
matters. I beg of you, do _not_ try to reinstate yourself with some
orthodox comments. She might misunderstand one little word and think you
were attacking her faith again. It is very serious. Your ideas are not
orthodox, Father, and if you said an orthodox thing it would not sound
sincere and that would be worst of all. But if you come and go simply
and affectionately, she will lose her horror of you--
Horror of me!