As the terrors of imagined suffering are always worse than actual pain,
so dreams are frequently more vivid than the reality of life,--that is
we are sure that life is indeed reality, and not itself a dream within
a dream. Cardinal Bonpre's sleep was not often disturbed by affrighting
visions,--his methods of daily living were too healthy and simple, and
his conscience too clear;--but on this particular night he was visited
by an impression rather than a dream,--the impression of a lonely, and
terrifying dreariness, as though the whole world were suddenly emptied
of life and left like a hollow shell on the shores of time. Gradually
this first sense of utter and unspeakable loss changed into a startled
consciousness of fear;--some awful transformation of things familiar
was about to be consummated;--and he felt the distinct approach of some
unnameable Horror which was about to convulse and overwhelm all
mankind. Then in his dream, a great mist rose up before his eyes,--a
mingling as of sea-fog and sun-flame,--and as this in turn slowly
cleared,--dispersing itself in serpentine coils of golden-grey
vapour,--he found himself standing on the edge of a vast sea,
glittering in a light that was neither of earth nor of heaven, but that
seemed to be the inward reflection of millions of flashing sword
blades. And as he stood gazing across the width of the waters, the sky
above him grew black, and a huge ring of fire rose out of the east,
instead of the beloved and familiar sun,--fire that spread itself in
belching torrents of flame upward and downward, and began to absorb in
its devouring heat the very sea. Then came a sound of many thunders,
mingled with the roar of rising waters and the turbulence of a great
whirlwind,--and out of the whirlwind came a Voice saying--"Now is the
end of all things on the earth,--and the whole world shall be burnt up
as a dead leaf in a sudden flame! And we will create from out its ashes
new heavens and a new earth, and we will call forth new beings
wherewith to people the fairness of our fresh creation,--for the
present generation of mankind hath rejected God,--and God henceforth
rejecteth His faithless and unworthy creatures! Wherefore let now this
one dim light amid the thousand million brighter lights be
quenched,--let the planet known to all angels as the Sorrowful Star
fall from its sphere forever,--let the Sun that hath given it warmth
and nourishment be now its chief Destroyer, and let everything that
hath life within it, perish utterly and revive no more!"
And Cardinal Felix heard these words of doom. Powerless to move or
speak, he stood watching the terrible circle of fire, extend and
expand, till all the visible universe seemed melting in one red furnace
of flame;--and in himself he felt no hope,--no chance of rescue;--in
himself he knew that the appalling work of destruction was being
accomplished with a deadly swiftness that left no time for
lamentation,--that the nations of the world were as flying straws swept
into the burning, without space or moment for a parting prayer or
groan. Tortured by an excruciating agony too great for tears, he
suddenly found voice, and lifting his face towards the lurid sky he
cried aloud--
"God of Eternity, stay Thy hand! For one remaining Cause be merciful!
Doom not Thy creature Man to utter destruction!--but still remember
that Thou wast born even as he! As helpless, as wronged, as tempted, as
betrayed, as suffering, as prone to pain and death! Thou hast lived his
life and endured his sorrows, though in the perfect glory of Thy
Godhead Thou hast not sinned! Have patience yet, oh Thou great
Splendour of all worlds! Have patience yet, Thou outraged and
blasphemed Creator! Break once again Thy silence as of old and speak to
us!--pity us once again ere Thou slay us utterly,--come to us even as
Thou earnest in Judaea, and surely we will receive Thee and obey Thee,
and reject Thy love no more!"
As he thus prayed he was seized with a paralysing fear,--for suddenly
the red and glowing chaos of fire above him changed into soft skies
tinged with the exquisite pearl-grey hues of twilight, and he became
conscious of the approach of a great invisible Presence, whose awful
unseen beauty overwhelmed him with its sublimity and majesty, causing
him to forget altogether that he himself existed. And Someone
spoke,--in grave sweet accents, so soft and close to him that the words
seemed almost whispered in his ears,--
"Thy prayer is heard,--and once again the silence shall be broken.
Nevertheless remember that 'the light shineth in darkness and the
darkness comprehendeth it not'."
Deep silence followed. The mysterious Presence melted as it were into
space,--and the Cardinal awoke, trembling violently and bathed in a
cold perspiration. He gazed bewilderedly around him, his mind still
confused and dazzled by the strong visionary impression of the burning
heavens and sea,--and he could not for a moment realize where he was.
Then, after a while, he recognised the humble furniture of the room he
occupied, and through the diamond-shaped panes of the little lattice
window, perceived the towers of Notre Dame, now gleaming with a kind of
rusty silver in the broader radiance of the fully uplifted moon.
"It was a dream," he murmured,--"A dream of the end of the world!" He
shuddered a little as he thought of the doom pronounced upon the
earth,--the planet "known to all angels as the Sorrowful Star"--"Let
the Sun that hath given it warmth and nourishment be now its chief
Destroyer."
According to modern scientists, such was indeed the precise way in
which the world was destined to come to an end. And could anything be
more terrifying than the thought that the glorious Orb, the maker of
day and generator of all beauty, should be destined to hurl from its
shining centre death and destruction upon the planet it had from
creation vivified and warmed! The Vision had shown the devastating ring
of fire rising from that very quarter of the heavens where the sun
should have been radiantly beaming,--and as Felix Bonpre dwelt upon the
picture in his mind, and remembered his own wild prayer to the Eternal,
a great uneasiness and dread overwhelmed him.
"God's laws can never be altered;" he said aloud--"Every evil deed
brings its own punishment; and if the world's wickedness becomes too
great an offence in the eyes of the Almighty, it follows that the world
must be destroyed. What am I that I should pray against Divine Justice!
For truly we have had our chance of rescue and salvation;--the
Way,--the Truth,--and the Life have been given to us through Christ our
Redeemer; and if we reject Him, we reject all, and we have but
ourselves to blame."
At that moment a plaintive wailing, as of some human creature in
distress broke on his ears through the deep silence of the night. He
listened attentively, and the sorrowful sound was repeated,--a desolate
yet gentle cry as of some sick and suffering child. Moved by a sudden
impulse the Cardinal rose, and going to the window looked anxiously
out, and down into the street below. Not a living creature was to be
seen. The moonlight spread itself in a vast silver glory over the whole
width of the square, and the delicate sculpture of the great
rose-window of the Cathedral, centrally suspended between the two tall
towers, looked in the fine pale radiance like a giant spider's web
sparkling with fairy dew. Again--again!--that weary sobbing cry! It
went to the Cardinal's heart, and stirred him to singular pain and pity.
"Surely it is some lost or starving creature," he said--"Some poor soul
seeking comfort in a comfortless world." Hastily throwing on his
garments he left his room, treading cautiously in order not to disturb
the sleeping household,--and feeling his way down the short, dark
staircase, he easily reached the door and passed noiselessly out into
the square. Walking a few steps hurriedly he paused, once more
listening. The night was intensely calm;--not a cloud crossed the
star-spangled violet dome of air wherein the moon soared serenely,
bathing all visible things in a crystalline brilliancy so pure and
penetrative, that the finest cuttings on the gigantic grey facade of
Notre Dame could be discerned and outlined as distinctly as though
every little portion were seen through a magnifying glass. The
Cardinal's tall attenuated figure, standing alone and almost in the
centre of the square, cast a long thin black shadow on the glistening
grey stones,--and his dream-impression of an empty world came back
forcibly upon him,--a world as empty as a hollow shell! Houses there
were around him, and streets, and a noble edifice consecrated to the
worship of God,--nevertheless there was a sense of absolute desertion
in and through all. Was not the Cathedral itself the mere husk of a
religion? The seed had dropped out and sunk into the soil,--"among
thorns" and "stony places" indeed,--and some "by the wayside" to be
devoured by birds of prey. Darker and heavier grew the cloud of
depression on the Cardinal's soul,--and more and more passionate became
the protest which had for a long time been clamouring in him for
utterance,--the protest of a Churchman against the Church he served! It
was terrible,--and to a "prince of the Roman Church" hideous and
unnatural; nevertheless the protest existed, and it had in some
unaccountable way grown to be more a part of him than he himself
realized.
"The world is empty because God is leaving it," he said, sorrowfully
raising his eyes to the tranquil heavens,--"and the joy of existence is
departing because the Divine and Holy Spirit of things is being
withdrawn!"
He moved on a few paces,--and once more through the deep stillness the
little sobbing cry of sorrow was wafted tremulously to his ears. It
came or seemed to come from the Cathedral, and quickening his steps he
went thither. The deeply hollowed portal, full of black shadows, at
first showed nothing but its own massively sculptured
outlines--then--all at once the Cardinal perceived standing within the
embrasured darkness, the slight shrinking figure of a child. A boy's
desolate little figure,--with uplifted hands clasped appealingly and
laid against the shut Cathedral door, and face hidden and pressed hard
upon those hands, as though in mute and inconsolable despair. As the
Cardinal softly drew nearer, a long shuddering sigh from the solitary
little creature moved his heart anew to pity, and speaking in accents
of the utmost gentleness he said--
"My poor child, what troubles you? Why are you here all alone, and
weeping at this late hour? Have you no home?--no parents?"
Slowly the boy turned round, still resting his small delicate hands
against the oaken door of the Cathedral, and with the tears yet wet
upon his cheeks, smiled. What a sad face he had!--worn and weary, yet
beautiful!--what eyes, heavy with the dews of sorrow, yet tender even
in pain! Startled by the mingled purity and grief of so young a
countenance, the Cardinal retreated for a moment in amaze,--then
approaching more closely he repeated his former question with increased
interest and tenderness--
"Why are you weeping here alone?"
"Because I am left alone to weep," said the boy, answering in a soft
voice of vibrating and musical melancholy--"For me, the world is empty."
An empty world! His dream-impression of universal desolation and
desertion came suddenly back upon the prelate's mind, and a sudden
trembling seized him, though he could discover in himself no cause for
fear. Anxiously he surveyed the strange and solitary little wayfarer on
the threshold of the Cathedral, and while he thus looked, the boy said
wistfully--
"I should have rested here within, but it is closed against me."
"The doors are always locked at night, my child," returned the
Cardinal, recovering from his momentary stupor and bewilderment, "But I
can give you shelter. Will you come with me?"
With a half-questioning, half-smiling look of grateful wonder, the boy
withdrew his hands from their uplifted, supplicating and almost
protesting attitude against the locked Cathedral-door, and moving out
of the porch shadows into the wide glory of the moonlight, he
confronted his interlocutor--
"Will I come with you?" he said--"Nay, but I see you are a Cardinal of
the Church, and it is I should ask 'will you receive me?' You do not
know who I am--nor where I came from, and I, alas! may not tell you! I
am alone; all--all alone,--for no one knows me in the world,--I am
quite poor and friendless, and have nothing where--with to pay you for
your kindly shelter--I can only bless you!"
Very simply, very gravely the young boy spoke these words, his delicate
head uplifted, his face shining in the moon-rays, and his slight,
childish form erect with a grace which was not born of pride so much as
of endurance, and again the Cardinal trembled, though he knew not why.
Yet in his very agitation, the desire he had to persuade the tired
child to go with him grew stronger and overmastered every other feeling.
"Come then," he said, smiling and extending his hand, "Come, and you
shall sleep in my room for the remainder of the night, and to-morrow we
will talk of the future. At present you need repose."
The boy smiled gratefully but said nothing, and the Cardinal, satisfied
with the mere look of assent walked with his foundling across the
square and into the Hotel Poitiers. Arrived at his own bed-room, he
smoothed his couch and settled the pillows carefully with active zeal
and tenderness. The boy stood silently, looking on.
"Sleep now, my child," said the Cardinal,--"and forget all your
troubles. Lie down here; no one will disturb you till the morning."
"But you, my lord Cardinal," said the boy--"Are you depriving yourself
of comfort in order to give it to me? This is not the way of the world!"
"It is MY way," said the Cardinal cheerfully,--"And if the world has
been unkind to you, my boy, still take courage,--it will not always be
unjust! Do not trouble yourself concerning me; I shall sleep well on
the sofa in the next room--indeed, I shall sleep all the better for
knowing that your tears have ceased, and that for the present at least
you are safely sheltered."
With a sudden quick movement the boy advanced and caught the Cardinal's
hands caressingly in his own.
"Oh, are you sure you understand?" he said, his voice growing
singularly sweet and almost tender as he spoke--"Are you sure that it
is well for you to shelter me?--I--a stranger,--poor, and with no one
to speak for me? How do you know what I may be? Shall I not perhaps
prove ungrateful and wrong your kindness?"
His worn little face upturned, shone in the dingy little room with a
sudden brightness such as one might imagine would illumine the features
of an angel, and Felix Bonpre looked down upon him half fascinated, in
mingled pity and wonder.
"Such results are with God, my child," he said gently--"I do not seek
your gratitude. It is certainly well for me that I should shelter
you,--it would be ill indeed if I permitted any living creature to
suffer for lack of what I could give. Rest here in peace, and remember
it is for my own pleasure as well as for your good that I desire you to
sleep well."
"And you do not even ask my name?" said the boy, half smiling and still
raising his sorrowful deep blue eyes to the Cardinal's face.
"You will tell me that when you please," said Felix, laying one hand
upon the soft curls that clustered over his foundling's forehead--"I am
in no wise curious. It is enough for me to know that you are a child
and alone in the world,--such sorrow makes me your servant."
Gently the boy loosened his clasp of the Cardinal's hands.
"Then I have found a friend!" he said,--"That is very strange!" He
paused, and the smile that had once before brightened his countenance
shone again like a veritable flash of sunlight--"You have the right to
know my name, and if you choose, to call me by it,--it is Manuel."
"Manuel!" echoed the Cardinal--"No more than that?"
"No more than that," replied the boy gravely--"I am one of the world's
waifs and strays,--one name suffices me."
There followed a brief pause, in which the old man and the child looked
at each other full and steadfastly, and once again an inexplicable
nervous trembling seized the Cardinal. Overcoming this with an effort,
he said softly,--
"Then--Manuel!--good night! Sleep--and Our Lady's blessing be upon you!"
Signing the cross in air he retired, carefully shutting the door and
leaving his new-found charge to rest. When he was once by himself in
the next room, however, he made no attempt to sleep,--he merely drew a
chair to the window and sat down, full of thoughts which utterly
absorbed him. There was nothing unusual, surely, in his finding a small
lost boy and giving him a night's lodging?--then why was he so affected
by it? He could not tell. He fully realized that the plaintive beauty
of the child had its share in the powerful attraction he felt,--but
there was something else in the nature of his emotion which he found it
impossible to define. It was as though some great blankness in his life
had been suddenly filled;--as if the boy whom he had found solitary and
weeping within the porch of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, belonged to
him in some mysterious way and was linked to his life so closely and
completely as to make parting impossible. But what a fantastic notion!
Viewed by the light of calm reason, there was nothing in the occurrence
to give rise to any such sentiment. Here was a poor little wayfarer,
evidently without parents, home, or friends,--and the Cardinal had
given him a night's lodging, and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow, he would
give him food and warm clothing and money,--and perhaps a
recommendation to the Archbishop in order that he might get a chance of
free education and employment in Rouen, while proper enquiries were
being made about him. That was the soberly prosaic and commonplace view
to take of the matter. The personality of the little fellow was
intensely winning,--but after all, that had nothing to do with the
facts of the case. He was a waif and stray, as he himself had said; his
name, so far as he seemed to know it, was Manuel,--an ordinary name
enough in France,--and his age might be about twelve,--not more.
Something could be done for him,--something SHOULD be done for him
before the Cardinal parted with him. But this idea of "parting" was
just what seemed so difficult to contemplate! Puzzled beyond measure at
the strange state of mind in which he found himself, Felix Bonpre went
over and over again all the events of the day in order,--his arrival in
Rouen,--his visit to the Cathedral, and the grand music he had heard or
fancied he heard there,--his experience with the sceptical little
Patoux children and their mother,--his conversation with the
Archbishop, in which he had felt much more excitement than he was
willing to admit,--his dream wherein he had been so painfully impressed
with a sense of the desertion, emptiness, and end of the world, and
finally his discovery of the little lonely and apparently forsaken boy,
thrown despairingly as it were against the closed Cathedral, like a
frail human wreck cast up from the gulf of the devouring sea. Each
incident, trivial in itself, yet seemed of particular importance,
though he could not explain or analyse why it should be so.
Meditatively he sat and watched the moon sink like a silver bubble
falling downward in the dark,--the stars vanished one by one,--and a
faint brown-gold line of suggestive light in the east began the slow
creation of a yet invisible dawn. Presently, yielding to a vague
impulse of inexplicable tenderness, he rose softly and went to the
threshold of the room where his foundling slept. Holding his breath, he
listened--but there was no sound. Very cautiously and noiselessly he
opened the door, and looked in,--a delicate half-light came through the
latticed window and seemed to concentrate itself on the bed where the
tired wanderer lay. His fine youthful profile was distinctly
outlined,--the soft bright hair clustered like a halo round his broad
brows,--and the two small hands were crossed upon his breast, while in
his sleep he smiled. Always touched by the beauty, innocence and
helplessness of childhood, something in the aspect of this little lad
moved the venerable prelate's heart to an unwonted emotion,--and
looking upon him, he prayed for guidance as to what he should best do
to rescue so gentle and young a creature from the cruelties of the
world.