INTRIGUES, IMPOSTURES, AND CRIMINAL LIFE OF THE PRIEST IN
BOURBONNAIS—INDIGNATION OF THE BISHOP—THE PEOPLE IGNOMINIOUSLY TURN
OUT THE CRIMINAL PRIEST FROM THEIR PARISH—FRIGHTFUL SCANDAL—FAITH IN
THE CHURCH OF ROME SERIOUSLY SHAKEN.
“Please accompany me to Bourbonnais; I have to confer with you and the
Rev. Mr. Courjeault, on important matters,” said the bishop, half an
hour before leaving St. Anne, after having blessed the chapel.
“I intended, my lord, to ask your lordship to grant me that honor,
before you offered it,” I answered.
Two hours of good driving took us to the parsonage of the Rev. Mr.
Courjeault, who had prepared a sumptuous dinner, to which several of the
principal citizens of Bourbonnais had been invited.
When all the guests had departed, and the bishop, Mr. Courjeault, and I,
were alone, he drew from his trunk, a bundle of weekly papers of
Montreal, Canada, in which several letters, very insulting and
compromising for the bishop, were published, signed R. L. C. Showing
them to me, he said:
“Mr. Chiniquy, can I know the reason you had for writing such insulting
things against your bishop?”
“My lord,” I answered. “I have no words to express my surprise and
indignation, when I read those letters. But, thanks be to God, I am not
the author of those infamous writings. I would rather have my right hand
cut off, than to allow it to pen such false and perfidious things
against you, or any one else.”
“Do you assure me that you are not the writer of the letters? Are you
positive in that denegation; and do you know the contents of these lying
communications?” replied the Bishop.
“Yes, my lord, I know the contents of these communications. I have read
them, several times, with supreme disgust and indignation; and I
positively assert that I never wrote a single line of them.”
“Then, can you tell me who did write them?” said the bishop.
I answered: “Please, my lord, put that question to the Rev. Mr.
Courjeault; he is more able than any one to satisfy your lordship on
that matter.”
I looked at Mr. Courjeault with an indignant air, which told him, that
he could not any longer wear the mask, behind which he had concealed
himself, for the last three or four months. The eyes of the bishop were
also turned, and firmly fixed on the wretched priest.
No! Never had I seen anything so strange, as the countenance of that
guilty man. His face, though usually ugly, suddenly took a cadaverous
appearance; his eyes were fixed on the floor, as if unable to move.
The only signs of life left in him, were given by his knees, which were
shaking convulsively; and by the big drops of sweat rolling down his
unwashed face; for, I must say here, _en passant_, that, with very few
exceptions, that priest was the dirtiest man I ever saw.
The bishop, with unutterable expressions of indignation, exclaimed:
“Mr. Courjeault; you are the writer of those infamous and slanderous
letters! Three times, you have written, and twice you told me, verbally,
that they were coming from Mr. Chiniquy! I do not ask you if you are the
author of these slanders against me.
“I see it written in your face. Your malice against Mr. Chiniquy, is
really diabolical. You wanted to ruin him in my estimation, as well as
in that of his countrymen. And to succeed the better in that plot, you
publish the most egregious falsehoods against me in the Canadian press,
to induce me to denounce Mr. Chiniquy as an impostor.
“How is it possible that a priest can so completely give himself to the
Devil?”
Addressing me, the bishop said: “Mr. Chiniquy, I beg your pardon for
having believed and repeated, that you were depraved enough to write
those calumnies against your bishop, I was deceived by that deceitful
man.
“I will immediately retract what I have written and said against you.”
Then, addressing Mr. Courjeault he again said:
“The least punishment I can give you is to turn you out of my diocese,
and write to all the Bishops of America, that you are the vilest priest
I ever saw, that they may never give you any position on this
Continent.”
These last words had hardly fallen from the lips of the bishop, when Mr.
Courjeault fell on his knees, before me, and bathing, with his tears, my
hands, which he was convulsively pressing in his, said:
“Dear Mr. Chiniquy, I see the greatness of my iniquity against you and
against our common bishop. For the dear Saviour Jesus’ sake, forgive me.
I take God to witness that you will never have a more devoted friend
than I will be. And you, my lord, allow me to tell you, that I thank God
that my malice and my great sin against both you and Mr. Chiniquy is
known and punished at once. However, in the name of our crucified
Saviour, I ask you to forgive me. God knows that, hereafter, you will
not have a more obedient and devoted priest than I.”
It was a most touching spectacle to see the tears, and hear the sobs of
that repentant sinner. I could not contain myself, nor refrain from
tears. They were mingled with those of that returning stray sheep. I
answered:
“Yes, Mr. Courjeault, I forgive you with all my heart, as I wish my
merciful God to forgive me my sins. May the God who sees your repentance
forgive you also!”
Bishop Vandeveld, who was gifted with a most sensitive and kind nature,
was also shedding tears, when I lifted up Mr. Courjeault to press him to
my heart, and to tell him again with my voice choked with sobs: “I
forgive you most sincerely, as I want to be forgiven.”
He asked me: “What do you advise me to do? Must I forgive also? and can
I continue to keep him at the head of this important mission?”
“Yes, my lord. Please forgive and forget the errors of that dear
brother; he has already done so much good to my countrymen of
Bourbonnais. I pledge myself that he will, hereafter, be one of your
best priests.”
And the bishop forgave him, after some very appropriate and paternal
advice, admirably mixed with mercy and firmness.
It was then about three o’clock in the afternoon. We separated, to say
our vespers and matins (prayers which took nearly an hour).
I had just finished reciting them in the garden, when I saw the Rev. Mr.
Courjeault walking from the church towards me, but his steps were
uncertain, as one distracted or half drunk. I was puzzled at the sight,
for he was a strong teetotaler, and I knew he had no strong drink in the
church. He advanced three or four steps, then retreated. At last, he
came very near, but his face had such an expression of terror and
sadness that he was hardly recognizable. He muttered something that I
could not understand.
“Please repeat your sentence,” I said to him, “I did not understand
you.”
He then put his hands on his face, and again muttered something. His
voice was drowned in his tears and sobs. Supposing that he was coming to
ask me again to pardon his past malice and calumnies against me, I felt
an unspeakable compassion for him.
As there were a couple of seats near by, I said to him:
“My dear Mr. Courjeault, come and sit here with me; and do not think any
more of what God Almighty has blotted out with the blood of His Son. I
will never think any more of your momentary errors. You may look upon me
as your most devoted friend.”
“Dear Mr. Chiniquy,” he answered, “I have to reveal to you another dark
mystery of my miserable life. Since more than a year, I have lived with
the beadle’s daughter as if she were my wife!
“She has just told me that she is to become a mother in a few days, and
that I have to see to that, and give her $500. She threatens to denounce
me publicly to the bishop and people if I do not support her and her
offspring. Would it not be better for me to flee away, this night, and
go back to France to live in my own family, and conceal my shame?
Sometimes, I am even tempted to throw myself in the river, to put an end
to my miserable and dishonored existence. Do you think that the bishop
would forgive this new crime, if I threw myself at his feet and asked
pardon? Would he give me some other place in his vast diocese, where my
misfortunes and my sins are not known? Please tell me what to do.”
I remained absolutely stupefied, and did not know what to answer. Though
I had compassion for the unfortunate man, I must confess that this new
development of his hypocrisy and rascality filled me with an unspeakable
horror and disgust. He had, till then, wrapped himself in such a thick
mantle of deception that many of his people looked upon him as an angel
of purity. His infamies were so well concealed under an exterior of
extreme moral rigidity that several of his parishioners looked upon him
as a saint, whose relics could perform miracles. Not long before, two
young couples, of the best families of Bourbonnais, having danced in a
respectable social gathering, had been condemned by him, and compelled
to ask pardon, publicly, in the church. This pharisaical rigidity caused
the secret vices of that priest to be still more conspicuous and
scandalous. I felt that the scandal which would follow the publication
of this mystery of iniquity would be awful; that it would even cause
many, forever, to lose faith in our church. So many sad thoughts filled
my mind that I was confused and unable to give him any advice. I
answered:
“Your misfortune is really great. If the bishop were not here, I might,
perhaps, tell you my mind about the best thing to do, just now. But the
bishop is here; he is the only man to whom you have to go to know how to
come out of the bottomless abyss into which you have fallen. He is your
proper counsellor; go and tell him, frankly, everything, and follow his
advice.”
With staggering step, and in such deep emotions that his sobs and cries
could be heard for quite a distance, he went to the bishop. I remained
alone, half petrified at what I had heard.
Half an hour later, the bishop came to me. He was pale and his eyes
reddened with tears. He said to me:
“Mr. Chiniquy, what an awful scandal! What a new disgrace for our holy
church! That Mr. Courjeault, whom I thought, till to-day, to be one of
my best priests, is an incarnate devil. What shall I do with him? Please
help me by your advice; tell me what you consider the best way of
preventing the scandal, and protecting the faith of the good people
against the destructive storm which is coming upon them.”
“My dear Bishop,” I answered, “the more I consider these scandals here,
the less I see how we can save the church from becoming a dreadful
wreck. I feel too much the responsibility of my advice to give it. Let
your lordship, guided by the Spirit of God, do what you consider the
best for the honor of the church and the salvation of so many souls,
which are in danger of perishing when this scandal becomes known. For
me, the only thing I can do is to conceal my face with shame, go back to
my young colony to pray and weep and work.”
The bishop replied: “Here is what I intend to do. Mr. Courjeault tells
me that there is not the least suspicion among the people of his sin,
and that it is an easy thing to send that girl to the house provided in
Canada for priests’ offenses, without awakening any suspicion. He seems
so penitent, that I hope, hereafter, we have nothing to fear from him.
He will now live the life of a good priest here, without giving any
scandal. But if I remove him, then there will be some suspicions of his
fall, and the awful scandal we want to avoid will come. Please lend me
$100, which I will give to Mr. Courjeault, to send that girl to Canada
as soon as possible; and he will continue here, to work with wisdom
after this terrible trial. What do you think of that plan?”
“If your lordship is sure of the conversion of Mr. Courjeault, and that
there is no danger of his great iniquity being known by the people,
evidently the wisest thing you can do is to send that girl to Canada,
and keep Mr. Courjeault here. Though I see great dangers even in that
way of dealing in this sad affair. But, unfortunately, I have not a cent
in hand to-day, and I cannot lend you the $100 you want.”
“Then,” said the bishop, “I will give a draft on a bank of Chicago, but
you must endorse it.”
“I have no objection, my lord, to endorse any draft signed by your
lordship,” I replied.
Though it was late in the day, and that I had, at first, proposed to
spend the night, I came back to my dear colony of St. Anne. Bourbonnais
appeared to me like a burning house, in the cellar of which there was a
barrel of powder, from which one could not keep himself too far away.
Five days later, four of the principal citizens of that interesting, but
sorely tried, place knocked at my door. They were sent as a deputation
from the whole village to ask me what to do about their curate, Mr.
Courjeault. They told me that several of them had, long since, suspected
what was going on between that priest and the beadle’s daughter, but
they had kept that secret. However, yesterday, they said the eyes of the
parish had been opened to the awful scandal.
The disgusting demonstrations and attention of the curate, when the
victim of his lust took the diligence, left no doubt in the minds of any
one that she is to have a child in Montreal.
“Now, Mr. Chiniquy, we are sent here to ask your advice. Please tell us
what to do.”
“My dear friends,” I answered, “it is not from me, but from our common
bishop, that you must ask what is to be done in such deplorable
affairs.”
But they replied: “Would you not be kind enough to come to Bourbonnais
with us, and go to our unfortunate priest to tell him that his criminal
conduct is known by the whole people, and that we cannot decently keep
him a day longer as our Christian teacher. He has rendered us great
services in the past, which we will never forget. We do not want to
abuse or insult him in any way. Though guilty, he is still a priest. The
only favor we ask from him now is that he quits the place, without noise
and scandal, in the night, to avoid any disagreeable demonstrations
which might come from his personal enemies, whom his pharisaical
rigidity has made pretty numerous and bitter.”
“I do not see any reason to refuse you that favor,” I answered.
Three hours later, in the presence of those four gentlemen, I was
delivering my sad message to the unfortunate curate. He received it as
his death warrant. But he was humble, and submitted to his fate.
After spending four hours with us in settling his affairs, he fell on
his knees, with torrents of tears, he asked pardon for the scandal he
had given, and requested us to ask pardon from the whole parish, and at
12 o’clock at night he left for Chicago. That hour was a sad one,
indeed, for us all. But my God had a still sadder hour in store for me.
The people of Bourbonnais had requested me to give them some religious
evening services the next week, and I was just at the end of one of
them, the 7th of May, when, suddenly, the Rev. Mr. Courjeault entered
the church, walked through the crowd, saluting this one, smiling on that
one, and pressing the hands of many. His face bore the marks of
impudence and debauchery.
From one end of the church to the other, a whisper of amazement and
indignation was heard.
“Mr. Courjeault! Mr. Courjeault!! Great God! what does this mean?”
I observed that he was advancing towards me, probably with the intention
of shaking hands, before the people, but I did not give him time to do
it. I left by the back door, and went to the parsonage, which was only a
few steps distant. He, then, went back to the door to have a talk with
the people, but very few gave him that chance. Though he affected to be
exceedingly gay, jocose and talkative, he could not get many people to
stop and hear him. Every one, particularly the women, were filled with
disgust, at his impudence. Seeing himself nearly deserted, at the church
door, he turned his steps towards the parsonage, which he entered,
whistling. When he beheld me, he laughed and said:
“Oh! oh! our dear little Father Chiniquy here? How do you do?”
“I am quite unwell,” I answered, “since I see that you are so miserably
destroying yourself.”
“I do not want to destroy myself,” he answered; “but it is you who wants
to turn me out of my beautiful parish of Bourbonnais, to take my place.
With the four blockheads who accompanied you, the other day, you have
frightened and persuaded me that my misfortune with Mary was known by
all the people; but our good bishop has understood that this was a trick
of yours, and that it was one of your lying stories. I came back to take
possession of my parish, and turn you out.”
“If the bishop has sent you back here to turn me out, that I may go back
to my dear colony, he has just done what I asked him to do; for he
knows, better than any man, for what great purpose I came to this
country, and that I cannot do my work so long as he asks me to take care
of Bourbonnais. I go, at once, and leave you in full possession of your
parsonage. But I pity you, when I see the dark cloud which is on your
horizon. Good-bye!”
“You are the only dark cloud on my horizon,” he answered. “When you are
gone, I will be in as perfect peace as I was before you set your feet in
Illinois. Good-bye; and please never come back here, except I invite
you.”
I left, and ordered my servant-man to drive me back to St. Anne. But
when crossing the village, I saw that there was a terrible excitement
among the people. Several times they stopped me, and requested me to
remain in their midst to advise them what to do.
But I refused, saying to them: “It would be an insult on my part to
advise you anything, in a matter where your duty as men and Catholics is
so clear. Consult the respect you owe to yourselves, to your families
and to your church, and you will know what to do.”
It took me all night, which was very dark, to come back to St. Anne,
where I arrived at dawn, the 9th of May, 1852.
The next Sabbath day, I held a public service in my chapel, which was
crowded, without making any allusion to that deplorable affair. On the
Monday following, four citizens of Bourbonnais were deputed to tell me
what they had done, and asked me not to desert them in that hour of
trial, but to remember that I was their countryman, and that they had
nobody else to whom they could look to help to fulfill their religious
duties. Here is the substance of their message:
“As soon as we saw that you had left our village, without telling us
what to do, we called a public meeting, where we passed the following
resolutions”:
1st. No personal insult shall be given to Mr. Courjeault.
2nd. We cannot consent to keep him a single hour as our pastor.
3rd. When, next Sabbath, he will begin his sermon, we will instantly
leave the church, and go to the door, that he may remain absolutely
alone, and understand our stern determination not to have him any more
for our spiritual teacher.
4th. We will send these resolutions to the bishop, and ask him to allow
Mr. Chiniquy to divide his time and attention between his new colony and
us, till we have a pastor able to instruct and edify us.
Strange to say, poor Mr. Courjeault, shut up in his parsonage during
that night, knew nothing of that meeting. He had not found a single
friend to warn him of what was to happen the next Sunday. That Sunday,
the weather was magnificent, and there never had been such a multitude
of people at the church.
The miserable priest, thinking by that unusual crowd, that everything
was to be right with him, that day, began his mass and went to the
pulpit to deliver his sermon. But he had hardly pronounced the first
words, when, at a signal given by some one, the whole people, without a
single exception, ran out of the church, as if it had been on fire, and
he remained alone.
Of course, this fell upon him as a thunderbolt, and he came very near
fainting. However, recovering himself, he went to the door, and having
with his tears and sobs, as with his words, persuaded the people to
listen to what he had to tell them, he said:
“I see that the hand of God is upon me, and I deserve it. I have sinned,
and made a mistake by coming back. You do not want me any more to be
your pastor. I can not complain of that; this is your right, you will be
satisfied. I will leave the place forever, to-night. I only ask you to
forgive my past errors and pray for me.”
This short address was followed by the most deadly silence, not a voice
was heard to insult him. Many, on the contrary, were so much impressed
with the sad solemnity of this occurrence that they could not refrain
their tears. The whole people went back to their homes with broken
hearts. Mr. Courjeault left Bourbonnais that very night, never to return
again. But the awful scandal he had given did not disappear with him.
Our Great and Merciful God, who, many times, has made the very sins and
errors of his people to work for good, caused that public iniquity of
the priest to remove the scales from many eyes and prepare them to
receive the light, which was already dawning at the horizon. A voice
from heaven was as if heard by many of us:
“Do you not see that in your Church of Rome, you do not follow the Word
of God, but the lying traditions of men? Is it not evident that your
priest’s celibacy is a snare and an institution of Satan?”
Many asked me to show them, in the Gospel, where Christ had established
the law of celibacy.
“I will do better,” I added, “I will put the Gospel in your hands, and
you will look for yourselves in that holy book what is said on that
matter.”
The very same day I ordered a merchant, from Montreal, to send me a
large box filled with New Testaments, printed by the order of the
Archbishop of Quebec, and on the 25th as many from New York. Very soon
it was known by every one of my emigrants that not only had Jesus never
forbidden His apostles and priests to marry, but he had left them free
to have their wives, and live with them, according to the very testimony
of Paul: “Have we not the power to lead about with us a wife and sister,
as well as the rest of the apostles and brethren of the Lord, and
Cephas” (Cor. ix: 55); they saw, by their Gospel, that the doctrine of
celibacy of the priests was not brought from heaven by Christ, but had
been forged in darkness, to add to the miseries of man. They read and
read over again these words of Christ:
“If you continue in my word, you shall be my disciples indeed.
“You shall know the truth, and it shall make you free.
“If, therefore, the son shall make you free, you shall be free indeed”
(John viii: 31, 32, 36).
And those promises of liberty, which Christ gave to those who read and
followed His Word, made their hearts leap with joy. They fell upon their
minds as music from heaven. They also soon found, by themselves, that
every time the disciples of Christ had asked Him who would be the first
ruler, or the pope, in His church, he had always solemnly and positively
said that, in His church, nobody would ever become the first, the ruler
or the pope.
And they began, seriously, to suspect that the great powers of the pope
and his bishops were nothing but a sacrilegious usurpation. I was not
long without seeing that the reading of the Holy Scriptures by my dear
countrymen was changing them into other men.
Their minds were evidently enlarged and raised to higher spheres of
thought. They were beginning to suspect that the heavy chains which were
wounding their shoulders were preventing them from making progress in
wealth, intelligence and liberty, as their more fortunate fellow-men,
called Protestants.
This was not yet the bright light of the day, but it was the blessed
dawn.