The Cardinal was still in his room alone with the boy Manuel, when
Madame Patoux, standing at her door under the waving tendrils of the
"creeping jenny" and shading her eyes from the radiance of the sun, saw
her children approaching with Fabien Doucet between them.
"Little wretches that they are!" she murmured--"Once let them get an
idea into their heads and nothing will knock it out! Now I shall have
to tell Monseigneur that they are here,--what an impertinence it
seems!--and yet he is so gentle, and has such a good heart that perhaps
he will not mind . . ."
Here she broke off her soliloquy as the children came up, Babette
eagerly demanding to know where the Cardinal was. Madame Patoux set her
arms akimbo and surveyed the little group of three half-pityingly, half
derisively.
"The Cardinal has not left his room since breakfast," she answered--"He
is playing Providence already to a poor lad lost in the streets, and
for that matter lost in the world, without father or mother to look
after him,--he was found in Notre Dame last night,--"
"Why, mother," interrupted Henri--"how could a boy get into Notre Dame
last night? When Babette and I went there, nobody was in the church at
all,--and we left one candle burning all alone in the darkness,--and
when we came out the Suisse swore at us for having gone in, and then
locked the door."
"Well, if one must be so exact, the boy was not found actually in Notre
Dame, obstinate child," returned his mother impatiently--"It happened
at midnight,--the good Cardinal heard someone crying and went to see
who it was. And he found a poor boy outside the Cathedral weeping as if
his heart were breaking, and leaning his head against the hard door for
a pillow. And he brought him back and gave him his own bed to sleep
in;--and the lad is with him now."
Little Fabien Doucet, leaning on his crutch, looked up with interest.
"Is he lame like me?" he asked.
"No, child," replied Madame compassionately--"He is straight and
strong. In truth a very pretty boy."
Fabien sighed. Babette made a dash forward.
"I will go and see him!" she said--"And I will call Monseigneur."
"Babette! How dare you! Babette!"
But Babette had scurried defiantly past her mother, and breathless with
a sense of excitement and disobedience intermingled, had burst into the
Cardinal's room without knocking. There on the threshold she
paused,--somewhat afraid at her own boldness,--and startled too at the
sight of Manuel, who was seated near the window opposite the Cardinal,
and who turned his deep blue eyes upon her with a look of enquiry. The
Cardinal himself rose and turned to greet her, and as the wilful little
maid met his encouraging glance and noted the benign sweetness of his
expression she trembled,--and losing nerve, began to cry.
"Monseigneur . . . Monseigneur . . ." she stammered.
"Yes, my child,--what is it?" said the Cardinal kindly--"Do not be
afraid,--I am at your service. You have brought the little friend you
spoke to me of yesterday?"
Babette peeped shyly at him through her tears, and drooping her head,
answered with a somewhat smothered "Yes."
"That is well,--I will go to him at once,"--and the Cardinal paused a
moment looking at Manuel, who as if responding to his unuttered wish,
rose and approached him--"And you, Manuel--you will also come. You see,
my child," went on the good prelate addressing Babette, the while he
laid a gently caressing hand on her hair--"Another little friend has
come to me who is also very sad,--and though he is not crippled or ill,
he is all alone in the world, which is, for one so young, a great
hardship. You must be sorry for him too, as well as for your own poor
playmate."
But Babette was seized with an extraordinary timidity, and had much ado
to keep back the tears that rose in her throat and threatened to break
out in a burst of convulsive sobbing. She did not know in the least
what was the matter with her,--she was only conscious of an immense
confusion and shyness which were quite new to her ordinarily bold and
careless nature. Manuel's face frightened yet fascinated her; he
looked, she thought, like the beautiful angel of the famous stained
glass "Annunciation" window in the crumbling old church of St. Maclou.
She dared not speak to him,--she could only steal furtive glances at
him from under the curling length of her dark tear-wet lashes,--and
when the Cardinal took her by the hand and descended the staircase with
her to the passage where the crippled Fabien waited, she could not
forbear glancing back every now and then over her shoulder at the
slight, supple, almost aerial figure of the boy, who, noiselessly, and
with a light gliding step, followed. And now Madame Patoux came
forward;--a bulky, anxious figure of gesticulation and apology.
"Alas, Monseigneur!" she began plaintively--"It is too shameful that
your quiet should be disturbed in this way, but if you could only know
the obstinacy of these children! Ah yes!--if you knew all, you would
pity their parents!--you would indeed! And this is the unhappy little
creature they have brought to you, Monseigneur,--a sad sight
truly!--and afflicted sorely by the will of God,--though one could
hardly say that God was anywhere about when he fell, poor baby, from
his mother's cart and twisted his body awry,--one would rather think
the devil was in the business, asking your pardon, Monseigneur; for
surely the turning of a human creature into a useless lump has little
of good, or divine kindness in it! Now make thy best bow to the
Cardinal," went on Madame with a gasp for breath in her voluble speech,
addressing the little cripple--"And it is a pity them hast no time to
confess thy sins and take the Sacrament before so holy a man lay hands
on thee!"
But at these words Cardinal Bonpre turned to her with a reproving
gesture.
"I pray you do not call me holy, my daughter," he said earnestly, the
old shadows of pain and prote gathering in his eyes, "Nothing can make
me more sorrowful than to hear such an epithet applied to one who is so
full of errors and sins as myself. Try to look upon me just as I
am,--merely an old man, nearing the grave, with nothing of merit in me
beyond the desire to serve our Lord and obey His commands,--a desire
which is far stronger than the practical force to obey it. Much that I
would do I cannot; and in much that I attempt I fail. Come to me, my
child."
Here, interrupting himself, he bent down, and putting his arms tenderly
round Fabien, lifted him bodily, crutch and all, and carried him into
the next room, and as he did so, the young Manuel glided in before him,
and stood beside his chair, his blue eyes shining with a soft and eager
light of interest, and a little smile lifting the delicate upper curve
of his lips as he looked on. Fabien meanwhile, perched on the
Cardinal's knee, and held close in the Cardinal's arms, was not at all
frightened,--he simply sat, contented, gazing up confidingly at the
pale venerable face above him. Henri and Babette, having as they
considered, got their way, stayed at the door half afraid to enter, and
their mother peered over their heads at the little scene in mingled awe
and curiosity.
"My poor child," then said the Cardinal gently--"I want you to
understand quite clearly how sorry I am for you, and how willingly I
would do anything in the world to make you a strong, well, and happy
boy. But you must not fancy that I can cure you. I told your little
friends yesterday that I was not a saint, such as you read about in
story-books,--and that I could not work miracles, because I am not
worthy to be so filled with the Divine Spirit as to heal with a touch
like the better servants of our Blessed Lord. Nevertheless I firmly
believe that if God saw that it was good for you to be strong and well,
He would find ways to make you so. Sometimes sickness and sorrow are
sent to us for our advantage,--sometimes even death comes to us for our
larger benefit, though we may not understand how it is so till
afterwards. But in Heaven everything will be made clear; and even our
griefs will be turned into joys,--do you understand?"
"Yes," murmured Fabien gravely, but two large tears welled up in his
plaintive eyes as the faint glimmer of hope he had encouraged as to the
possibility of his being miraculously cured by the touch of a saintly
Cardinal, expired in the lonely darkness of his little afflicted soul.
"That is well," continued the Cardinal kindly--"And now, since it is so
difficult for you to kneel, you shall stay where you are in my
arms,--so!"--and he set him on his knee in a position of even greater
comfort than before, "You shall simply shut your eyes, and clasp your
little hands together as I put them here,"--and as he spoke he crossed
the child's hands on his silver crucifix-"And I will ask our Lord to
come and make you well,--for of myself I can do nothing."
At these words Henri and Babette glanced at each other questioningly,
and then as if simultaneously moved by some inexplicable emotion,
dropped on their knees,--their mother, too stout and unwieldy to do
this with either noiselessness or satisfaction to herself, was
contented to bend her head as low as she could get it. Manuel remained
standing. Leaning against the Cardinal's chair, his eyes fixed on the
crippled Fabien, he had the aspect of a young Angel of compassion,
whose sole immortal desire was to lift the burden of sorrow and pain
from the lives of suffering humanity. And after a minute or two passed
in silent meditation, the Cardinal laid his hands tenderly on Fabien's
fair curly head and prayed aloud.
"Oh merciful Christ! Most pitying and gentle Redeemer!--to Whom in the
days of Thy sacred life on earth, the sick and suffering and lame and
blind were brought, and never sent away unhealed or uncomforted;
consider, we beseech Thee, the sufferings of this Thy little child,
deprived of all the joys which Thou hast made so sweet for those who
are strong and straight in their youth, and who have no ailment to
depress their courage or to quench the ardour of their aspiring souls.
Look compassionately upon him, oh gentle King and Master of all such
children!--and even as Thou wert a child Thyself, be pleased to heal
him of his sad infirmity. For, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make this bent
body straight and these withered muscles strong,--from death itself
Thou canst ordain life, and nothing is impossible to Thee! But above
all things, gracious Saviour, we do pray Thee so to lift and strengthen
this child's soul, that if it is destined he should still be called
upon to bear his present pain and trouble, grant to him such perfection
in his inward spirit that he may prove worthy to be counted among Thy
angels in the bright Hereafter. To Thy care, and to Thy comfort, and to
Thy healing, great Master, we commend him, trusting him entirely to Thy
mercy, with perfect resignation to Thy Divine Will. For the sake and
memory of Thy most holy childhood mercifully help and bless this child!
Amen!"
A deep silence ensued. Only the slow ticking of the big old-fashioned
clock in Madame Patoux's kitchen, which was next door to the room they
were all in, could be distinctly heard. Henri and Babette were the
first to stir. They got up from their knees, brushed the dust of the
floor from their clothes, and stared curiously at Fabien. Was a miracle
going to happen? Fabien, however--still resting against the Cardinal's
breast, with his meagre little hands clasped tight on the Cardinal's
crucifix, kept his eyes solemnly shut and gave no sign, till the
Cardinal himself gently moved him and set him down. Then he glanced
around him bewilderingly, tottered, and would have fallen had he not
been given his little crutch for support. Very pathetic was the smile
which then quivered on his pale lips,--very doleful was the shake of
his head as he prepared to hobble away.
"Thank you very much, Monseigneur," he murmured gently--"I felt almost
cured while you were praying,--but I am afraid it is no use! You see
there are so many miserable people in the world,--many cripples,
too,--I am not the only one. Our Lord must have enough to do if He is
asked to heal them all! But I am sure you have done everything you can
for me, and I am grateful to you, Monseigneur. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, my child!" and the Cardinal, strongly moved by the sight of
the little helpless twisted figure, and painfully impressed too by the
sense of his own entire powerlessness to remove the cause of the
trouble, bent down and kissed him--"Believe me, if the giving of my own
life could make you strong, you should have that life willingly. May
God bless and heal you!"
At that moment Manuel moved from the place he had kept near the
Cardinal's chair. With a light, eager step forward, he went up to the
little cripple, and putting his arms round him kissed him on the
forehead.
"Good-bye, dear little brother!" he said smiling--"Do not be sad! Have
patience! In all the universe, among all the millions and millions of
worlds, there is never a pure and unselfish prayer that the great good
God does not answer! Be sure of that! Take courage, dear little
brother! You will soon be well!"
Fabien stared, half amazed, at the gentle young face that shone upon
him with such an expression of hope and tenderness.
"You are very kind," he said--"And you are just a boy yourself,--so you
can perhaps guess how it must feel not to be like other boys who can
run and leap and walk for miles and miles through the fields and the
green shady forests where the birds sing,--and where there is so much
to see and think about,--when one is lame one cannot go far you
know--and then there is my mother--she is very sad about me,--and it
will be hard for her if I live to be a man and still can do nothing to
help her . . ."
His weak voice broke, and two large tears filled his eyes and brimmed
over, trickling slowly down his pale cheeks. Manuel took his hand and
pressed it encouragingly.
"Do not cry!" he said gently--"Believe in what I say--that you will
soon be quite well. The Cardinal has prayed for you as only good men
CAN pray,--without one selfish thought, in faith and deep
humility,--such prayers draw angels down! Be patient--be brave! Believe
in the best and the best will come!"
His words rang out with a sweet convincing clearness, and even Cardinal
Bonpre felt a sense of comfort as he listened. The little cripple
smiled through his tears.
"Oh, yes," he murmured--"I WILL hope and I WILL believe! I am always
sure God is near us, though my mother thinks He must be very far away.
Yes,--I will be as brave as I can. You are very good to me,--I know you
understand just how I feel, and I thank you very much. I hope you will
be happy yourself some day. Good-bye!" Then, turning to Henri and
Babette he asked, "Shall we go now?"
Henri's brows were drawn together in a dark frown.
"I suppose so," he replied--"I suppose there's nothing more to be
done?" This, with a somewhat sarcastic air of inquiry directed at the
Cardinal, who met his bold bright glance, mildly and half
compassionately.
"Nothing more my child"--he answered--"Did you expect a miracle? I told
you from the first that I was no saint,--I can do no good unless our
Lord wills it."
"The Pope believes in miracles"--said Henri, flushing as he spoke with
the heat of a sudden angry emotion--"But only those that are performed
on his own behalf! HE thinks that God's chief business is to look after
HIM!"
A silence ensued,--whether of horror or embarrassment could hardly be
determined. The Cardinal said nothing,--Babette trembled a
little,--what a dreadful boy Henri really was, she thought!--Madame
Patoux shut up her eyes in horror, crossed herself devoutly as against
some evil spirit, and was about to speak, when Henri, nothing daunted,
threw himself into the breach again, and turned with a fiery vehemence
of appeal towards the young and thoughtful-looking Manuel.
"It's just as I say!" he declared hotly--"The Pope is taken as much
care of as if he were a peach wrapped in wadding! Was Christ taken care
of? No,--He suffered all sorts of hardships and at last was crucified!
The Pope shuts himself up in the Vatican with millions and millions of
money's worth, while thousands of people around him in Italy alone, are
starving and miserable. Christ would not allow such a thing. Christ
said 'Sell half that thou hast and give to the poor'--now the Pope
doesn't sell half, nor a quarter, nor a bit of a quarter! He takes all
he can get and keeps it! And yet God is supposed to work miracles for
an old man like that!--Oh I know all about it! Boys read the newspapers
as well as grown men!"
"Henri!" gasped Madame Patoux, extending her fat arm and hand with a
solemn gesture of reproach--"Henri, thou art mad . . . wicked . . ."
But Henri went on unheedingly, still addressing Manuel.
"Now you are a boy, and I daresay you can read and think,--you are
about my age I suppose. And you are left all alone in the world, with
nobody to care for you,--well, do you think that is well-arranged?--And
do you think there is any sense in believing in a God who does such a
lot of cruel things? And when He won't help us ever so little? How can
people be good if they keep on praying and praying, and hoping and
hoping, and working and working--and yet nothing comes of it all but
trouble and pain and loss . . ." He stopped for sheer lack of breath to
go on.
Manuel looked at him quietly, full in the eyes.
"Yes, it is hard!" he said--"Very hard! But it is not God who does any
cruel thing. God is Love,--and the Spirit of Love cannot be cruel. It
is the people of the world themselves,--the people who injure each
other in thought, word and deed,--and who have no spirit of love in
them,--these invite sorrow and pain, and rush upon misfortune. Then
they blame God for it! Ah, it is easy to blame God!--so much easier
than to blame one's self! And if you ask me if it is well for those who
suffer cruel things to still believe in God, I say yes, I do think it
well,--for it is the only chance they have of finding the right way of
life after much wandering in the wrong."
His sweet voice fell on the silence like a soft chime, and Henri, for
no particular reason that he could give, felt suddenly abashed.
Cardinal Bonpre listened to the words of this strange foundling with a
singular emotion,--an emotion too deep to find any outlet in speech.
Babette raised her brown trustful eyes, and timidly ventured to put in
her opinion.
"Yes"--she said--"I am sure that is true. You see Henri"--with a wise
glance at her brother--"you see it is always the same,--when anyone
suffers something unfortunate, there is certain to be some cause for
it. Now everybody says that if poor Martine had not put Fabien in the
cart to save herself the trouble of holding him on her knee, he would
not have tumbled out and been hurt. That was the beginning of it. And
that was not God's fault. Come Fabien!--we'll take you back now."
At this, Madame Patoux started from her stricken condition of horrified
dumbness into speech and action.
"Ah yes, it is indeed time!" she exclaimed--"Enough trouble has been
given, I am sure, to Monseigneur, and if such a prayer as his does not
reach Heaven, why then there is no Heaven at all, and it is no good
bothering ourselves about it. And what things have been said by my
son!--MY son!--against the Holy Father! Ah, mon Dieu! The wickedness of
it!--The horror! And if thou learnest such blasphemy from newspapers,
Henri, thou shalt not read them--"
"Who is to prevent me?" demanded Henri, his eyes sparkling defiantly.
"Hush--hush my child!" interposed the Cardinal quietly "Nothing indeed
can prevent thee,--no one can hinder thee from walking the world
according to thine own will and direction. Thou must take good and evil
as they come, and strive thy best to discern between them--and if the
love of God cannot help thee--well!--perchance the love of thy mother
may!"
There was a pause. Henri's head drooped, and quick tears filled his
eyes. He said nothing further, but turned to assist Babette in guiding
the little Fabien's hesitating steps as he hobbled from the room. The
emotional Madame Patoux choked back a rising sob.
"God bless you Monseigneur!" she murmured--"Henri will not forget those
words--the lad has a hasty temper, but a good heart--yes, believe me--a
good heart--"
"That I am sure of"--responded the Cardinal--"He is quick and
intelligent--and seeks to know the truth. If he could feel an asserted
'truth' to be really true, I am confident he would frame his life upon
it, and be a good, brave man. Yes--he is a clever lad,--and our modern
system of education pushes the brain to a precocity exceeding bodily
years,--his impatience and anger only come from puzzling over what he
finds it difficult to understand. It is all a puzzle to him--all a
puzzle!--as it is to most of us!" He sighed--then added in a lighter
tone--"I shall want nothing more at your kindly hands, my daughter. I
have decided to leave Rouen for Paris to-day and will take an early
afternoon train. Manuel"--and he hesitated a moment--"Manuel will go
with me."
Madame was scarcely surprised at this announcement. She had indeed
expected it. She glanced at Manuel himself to see how he accepted this
sudden change in his fortunes, but he was entirely absorbed in watching
Henri and Babette lead their little crippled friend away. After all,
there was nothing to be said. The Cardinal was a free agent,--he had a
perfect right to befriend a homeless boy and give him sustenance and
protection if he chose. He would make, thought Madame, a perfect
acolyte, and would look like a young angel in his little white
surplice. And so the good woman, deciding in her own mind that such was
the simple destiny for which the Cardinal intended him, smiled,
murmured something deferential and approving, and hastened from the
room, to prepare for Monseigneur, whether he asked for it or not, a
dish of her most excellent soup, to strengthen and support him before
starting on his journey. And ere four o'clock had chimed from all the
towers of the city, the Hotel Poitiers was deprived of its honoured
guest,--the Cardinal, accompanied by his foundling, had departed, and
the black, smoky, snake-like train had rushed with them through the
smiling peace of the Normandy pasture-lands on towards the brilliant
"city enthroned in wickedness," which sparkles like a jewel on the
borders of the Seine as gloriously as ever Babylon sparkled on the
shores of Euphrates. As godless, as hollow to the very core of
rottenness, as her sister of ancient days, wanton "Lutetia"
shines,--with the ghastly and unnatural lustre of phosphorescent
luminance arising from old graves--and as divinely determined as the
destruction of the old-time city splendid, is the approaching downfall
of the modern capital. To the inhabitants of Rouen, the very name of
Paris carries with it a kind of awe,--it excites various emotions of
wonder, admiration, longing, curiosity and even fear,--for Paris is a
witches' cauldron in which Republicanism, Imperialism, Royalism,
Communism and Socialism, are all thrown by the Fates to seethe together
in a hellish broth of conflicting elements--and the smoke of it ascends
in reeking blasphemy to Heaven. Not from its church-altars does the cry
of "How long, O Lord, how long!" ascend nowadays,--for its priests are
more skilled in the use of the witty bon-mot or the polished sneer than
in the power of the prophet's appeal,--it is from the Courts of Science
that the warning note of terror sounds,--the cold vast courts where
reasoning thinkers wander, and learn, and deeply meditate, knowing that
all their researches but go to prove the fact that apart from all creed
and all forms of creed, Crime carries Punishment as surely as the seed
is born with the flower,--thinkers who are fully aware that not all the
forces of all mankind, working with herculean insistence to support a
Lie, can drive back the storm-cloud of the wrath of that "Unknown
Quantity" called God, whose thunders do most terribly declare the truth
"with power and great glory." "How long O Lord, how long!" Not long, we
think, O friends!--not long now shall we wait for the Divine
Pronouncement of the End. Hints of it are in the air,--signs and
portents of it are about us in our almost terrific discoveries of the
invisible forces of Light and Sound,--we are not given such tremendous
powers to play with in our puny fashion for the convenience of making
our brief lives easier to live and more interesting,--no, there is some
deeper reason,--one, which in our heedless way of dancing over our own
Earth-grave, we never dream of. And we go on making our little plans,
building our ships and making loud brags of our armies, and our skill,
and our prowess both by land and sea, and our amazing importance to
ourselves and to others,--which importance has reached such a height at
the present day as to make of us a veritable spectacle for Olympian
laughter,--and we draw out our little sums of life from the Eternal
exchequer, and add them up and try to obtain the highest interest for
them, always forgetting to calculate that in making up the sum total,
that mysterious "Unknown Quantity" will have to come in, and (un less
it has been taken into due counting from the first) will be a figure
likely to swamp the whole banking business. And in this particular
phase of speculation and exchange, Paris has long been playing a losing
game. So steadily has she lost, in honour, in prestige, in faith, in
morals, in justice, in honesty and in cleanly living, that it does not
seem possible she can ever retrieve herself. Her men are
dissolute,--her women shameless--her youth of both sexes depraved,--her
laws are corrupt--her arts de cadent--her religion dead. What next can
be expected of her?--or rather to what extent will Destiny permit her
to go before the bolt of destruction falls? "Thus far, and no farther"
has ever been the Principle of Nature--and Paris has almost touched the
"Thus far."
Sitting quietly in her tidy kitchen near the open window, after the
Cardinal's departure, Madame Patoux knitted busily, her thoughts flying
faster than her glittering needles. A certain vague impression of
solemnity had been left on her mind by the events of the morning,--she
could not quite reason out the why or the wherefore of it--and yet--it
was a fact that after Monseigneur had gone, she had, when entering the
rooms he had vacated, felt a singular sense of awe.
"Almost as if one were in the Cathedral at the ringing of the
'Sanctus'" she murmured under her breath, glancing about timidly at the
plain furniture and bare walls. And after putting everything in order,
she closed and locked the doors jealously, with a determination that
she would not let those rooms to the first chance-comer for a long
time,--no, though she might have to lose money by her refusal. And now,
as she sat actively employed in knitting socks for Henri, whom she
could see sitting with his sister outside on the bench under the house
porch, reading or pretending to read, she began to wonder what opinion
those two young miscreants had formed in their minds respecting the
Cardinal, and also what they thought of the boy who had been taken so
suddenly under his protection. She was almost tempted to call Henri and
ask him a few questions on the subject,--but she had learnt to value
peace and quietness when she could secure those rare blessings at the
hands of her children, and when they were employed with a book and
visibly out of mischief she thought it wisest to leave them alone. And
so she left them in the present instance, pushing her window open as
she sat and knitted, for the air was warm and balmy, and the long rays
of sunshine streaming across the square were of the hue of a ripe
nectarine just gathered, and the delicate mouldings and traceries and
statues on the porch of the Cathedral appeared like so many twinings of
grey gossamer web glistening in a haze of gold. Now and then neighbours
passed, and nodded or called a greeting which Madame Patoux answered
cheerily, still knitting vivaciously; and the long shafts of sunshine
grew longer, casting deeper shadows as the quarters chimed. All at once
there was a cry,--a woman's figure came rushing precipitately across
the square,--Madame Patoux sprang up, and her children ran out of the
porch as they recognised Martine Doucet.
"Martine! Martine! What is it!" they all cried simultaneously.
Martine, breathless, dishevelled, laughing and sobbing alternately,
tried to speak, but could only gesticulate and throw up her hands in a
kind of ecstasy, but whether of despair or joy could not be guessed.
Madame Patoux shook her by the arm.
"Martine!--speak--what is it!"
Martine made a violent effort.
"Fabien!--Fabien--" she gasped, flinging herself to and fro and still
sobbing and laughing.
"Mon Dieu!" cried Madame in horror. "Is the child dead?"
"No, no!--" and Martine again tossed her arms aloft in a kind of
frenzy. "No--but look you!--there IS a God! Yes!--we thought He was an
invention of the priests--but no--He is a real God after all!--Oh mes
enfants!" and she tried to grasp the amazed Henri and Babette in her
arms, "You are two of His angels!--you took my boy to the Cardinal--"
The children glanced at each other.
"Yes--yes!" they murmured breathlessly.
"Well! and see what has happened!--See!--Here comes Fabien--!"
And as she spoke exultantly with an excitement that seemed to inspire
every nerve of her body, a little figure came running lightly towards
them,--the light strong figure of a boy with fair curls flying in the
wind, and a face in which the large, grey, astonished eyes flashed with
an almost divine joy.
"Mother!--Mother!" he cried.
Madame Patoux felt as though the heavens had suddenly opened to let the
angels down. Was this Fabien? Fabien, who had hobbled painfully upon
crutches all his life, and had left her house in his usual condition an
hour or so ago?--This straight-limbed child, running with the graceful
and easy movement of a creature who had never known a day's pain?
"Fabien, is it thou?" almost screamed Henri, "Speak, is it thou?"
"It is I" said Fabien, and he stopped, panting for breath,--then threw
his arms round his mother's neck and faced them,--"It is I--strong and
well!--thanks to God and the prayers of the Cardinal!"
For a moment there was a dead silence,--a silence of stupefied
amazement unbroken save by the joyful weeping of Martine. Then suddenly
a deep-toned bell rang from the topmost tower of Notre Dame--and in the
flame-red of the falling sun the doves that make their homes among the
pinnacles of the great Cathedral, rose floating in cloudy circles
towards the sky. One bell--and then another--yet another!--
"The Angelus!" cried Babette dropping on her knees and folding her
hands, "The Angelus!--Mother--Martine--Henri!--Fabien!--the Angelus!"--
Down they all knelt, a devotional group, in the porch through which the
good Cardinal had so lately passed, and the bells chimed sweetly and
melodiously as Fabien reverently repeated the Angelic Salutation amid
responses made with tears and thanksgiving, and neighbours and townfolk
hearing of the miracle came hastening to the Hotel Poitiers to enquire
into its truth, and pausing as they saw the cluster of kneeling figures
in the porch instinctively and without question knelt also,--then as
the news spread, group after group came running and gathering together,
and dropping on their knees amazed and awe-struck, till the broad
Square showed but one black mass of a worshipping congregation under
the roseate sky, their voices joining in unison with the clear accents
of one little happy child; while behind them rose the towers of Notre
Dame, and over their heads the white doves flew and the bells of the
Angelus rang. And the sun dropped slowly into the west, crimson and
glorious like the shining rim of a Sacramental Cup held out and then
drawn slowly back again by angel hands within the Veil of Heaven.