I
The salon which the Cardinal-Archbishop used as a reception room had
been fitted, in the time of Louis XV., with panellings of carved wood
painted a light grey. Seated figures of women surrounded by trophies
filled the angles of the cornices. The mirror on the chimney-piece
being in two divisions, was covered, as to its lower half, with a
drapery of crimson velvet which threw into relief a pure white statue
of Our Lady of Lourdes with her pretty blue scarf. Along the walls, in
the middle of the panels, hung enamel plates framed in reddish plush,
portraits of Popes Pius IX. and Leo XIII. printed in colours, and
pieces of embroidery, either souvenirs of Rome or gifts from the pious
ladies of the diocese. The gilded side-tables were loaded with plaster
models of Gothic or Romanesque churches: the Cardinal-Archbishop was
fond of buildings. From the plaster rose hung a Merovingian chandelier
executed from the designs of M. Quatrebarbe, diocesan architect and
Knight of the Order of Saint Gregory.
Tucking his cassock up above his violet stockings and warming his
short, stout legs at the fire, Monseigneur was dictating a pastoral
letter, whilst, seated at a large table of brass and tortoiseshell, on
which stood an ivory crucifix, the vicar-general, M. de Goulet, was
writing: _So that nothing may occur to sadden for us the joys of our
retreat._ …
Monseigneur dictated in a dry, colourless voice. He was a very short
man, but the great head with its square face softened by age was
carried erect. Notwithstanding its coarse and homely lineaments, his
face was expressive of subtlety and a kind of dignity born of habit and
the love of command.
“_The joys of our retreat._ … Here you will expound the ideas of
harmony, of the subduing of the mind, of that submission to the powers
that be which is so necessary, and which I have already dealt with in
my previous pastoral letters.”
M. de Goulet raised his long, pale, refined head adorned by beautiful
curled locks as though by a Louis Quatorze wig.
“But this time,” said he, “would it not be expedient, while repeating
these declarations, to show that reserve appropriate to the position
of the secular powers, shaken as they are by internal convulsions
and henceforth incapable of imparting to their covenants what they
themselves do not possess—I mean continuity and stability? For you
must see, Monseigneur, that the decline of parliamentary predominance …”
The Cardinal-Archbishop shook his head.
“Without reservation, Monsieur de Goulet, without any species of
reservation. You are full of learning and piety, Monsieur de Goulet,
but your old pastor can still give you a few lessons in discretion,
before handing over the government of the diocese, at his death, to
your youthful energy. Have we not to congratulate ourselves upon
the attitude of M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin, who regards our
schools and our labours with favour? And are we not welcoming to
our table to-morrow the general in command of the division and the
president-in-chief? And, _à propos_ of that, let me see the menu.”
The Cardinal-Archbishop inspected it, made alterations and additions,
and gave special directions that the game should be ordered from
Rivoire, the poacher to the prefecture.
A servant entered and presented him with a card on a silver tray.
Having read the name of Abbé Lantaigne, head of the high seminary, on
the card, Monseigneur turned towards his vicar-general.
“I’ll wager,” said he, “that M. Lantaigne is coming to complain to me
again about M. Guitrel.”
Abbé de Goulet rose to leave the salon. But Monseigneur stopped him.
“Stay! I want you to share with me the pleasure of listening to M.
Lantaigne, who, as you know, is spoken of as the finest preacher in the
diocese. For, if one listened only to public opinion, it would seem
that he preaches better than you, dear Monsieur de Goulet. But that
is not my opinion. Between ourselves, I care neither for his inflated
style nor for his involved scholarship. He is terribly wearisome,
and I am keeping you here to help me to get rid of him as quickly as
possible.”
A priest entered the salon and bowed. He was very tall and immensely
corpulent, with a serious, simple, abstracted face.
At sight of him Monseigneur exclaimed gaily:
“Ah! good-day, Monsieur l’abbé Lantaigne. At the very moment that you
sent in your name the vicar-general and I were talking about you. We
were saying that you are the most distinguished orator in the diocese,
and that the Lenten course you preached at Saint-Exupère is proof
positive of your great talents and profound scholarship.”
Abbé Lantaigne reddened. He was sensitive to praise, and it was by the
door of pride alone that the Enemy could find entrance to his soul.
“Monseigneur,” he answered, his face lit up by a smile which quickly
died away, “the approval of Your Eminence gives me a deep delight which
comes felicitously to soothe the opening of an interview which is a
painful one to me. For it is a complaint which the head of the high
seminary has the misfortune to pour into your paternal ears.”
Monseigneur interrupted him:
“Tell me, Monsieur Lantaigne, has that Lenten course at Saint-Exupère
been printed?”
“A synopsis of it appeared in the diocesan _Semaine religieuse_. I am
moved, Monseigneur, by the marks of interest which you deign to show in
my apostolic labours. Alas! it is long enough ago since I first entered
the pulpit. In 1880, when I had too many sermons, I gave them to M.
Roquette, who has since been raised to a bishopric.”
“Ah!” cried Monseigneur, with a smile, “that good M. Roquette! When I
went last year _ad limina apostolorum_ I met M. Roquette for the first
time just as he was gaily setting out for the Vatican. A week later I
met him in Saint-Peter’s, where he was imbibing the solace that he much
needed after being refused the cardinal’s hat.”
“And why,” demanded M. Lantaigne, in a voice that whistled like a
whip-lash, “why should the purple have descended on the shoulders
of this poor creature, a mediocrity in character, a nonentity in
doctrine, whose mental density has made him ridiculous, and whose
sole recommendation is that he has sat at table with the President of
the Republic at a masonic banquet? Could M. Roquette only rise above
himself, he would be astonished at finding himself a bishop. In these
times of trial, when a future confronts us pregnant with awful menace
as well as with gracious promise, it would be expedient to build up
a body of clergy powerful both in character and in scholarship. And
in fact, Monseigneur, I come to interview Your Eminence about another
Roquette, about another priest who is unfitted to sustain the weight of
his great duties. The professor of rhetoric at the high seminary, M.
l’abbé Guitrel …”
Monseigneur interrupted with a feigned jest, and asked, with a laugh,
whether Abbé Guitrel were in a fair way to become a bishop in his turn.
“What an idea, Monseigneur!” cried Abbé Lantaigne. “If perchance this
man were raised to a bishopric, we should behold once more the days of
Cautinus, when an unworthy pontiff defiled the see of Saint Martin.”
The Cardinal-Archbishop, curled up in his arm-chair, remarked genially:
“Cautinus, Bishop Cautinus” (it was the first time he had heard the
name), “Cautinus who was a successor of Saint Martin. Are you quite
sure that this Cautinus behaved as badly as they make out? It is an
interesting point in the history of the Gallic Church concerning which
I should much like to have the opinion of so learned a man as yourself,
Monsieur Lantaigne.”
The head of the high seminary drew himself up.
“The testimony, Monseigneur, of Gregory of Tours is explicit in the
passage touching Bishop Cautinus. This successor of the blessed Martin
lived in such luxury and robbed the Church of its treasures to such an
extent that, at the end of two years of his administration, all the
sacred vessels were in the hands of the Jews of Tours. And if I have
coupled the name of Cautinus with that of this unhappy M. Guitrel, it
is not without reason. M. Guitrel carries off the artistic curios,
wood-carvings, or finely chased vessels, which are still to be found in
country churches, in the care of ignorant churchwardens, and it is for
the benefit of the Jews that he devotes himself to this robbery.”
“For the benefit of the Jews?” demanded Monseigneur. “What is this that
you are telling me?”
“For the benefit of the Jews,” returned Abbé Lantaigne, “and to
embellish the drawing-rooms of M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin, Jew and
freemason. Madame Worms-Clavelin is fond of antiquities. Through the
medium of M. Guitrel she has gained possession of the copes treasured
for three hundred years in the vestry of the church at Lusancy, and she
has, I am told, turned them into seats of the kind called _poufs_.”
Monseigneur shook his head.
“_Poufs!_ But if the transfer of these disused vestments has been
conducted legally, I do not see that Bishop Cautinus … I mean M.
Guitrel, has done wrong in taking part in this lawful transaction.
There is no reason why these copes of the pious priests of Lusancy
should be revered as relics of the saints. There is no sacrilege in
selling their cast-off clothes to be turned into _poufs_.”
M. de Goulet, who had been nibbling his pen for some moments, could not
refrain from a murmur. He deplored the fact that the churches should be
thus robbed of their artistic treasures by infidels. The head of the
high seminary answered in firm tones:
“Let us, Monseigneur, if you please, drop the subject of the trade to
which the friend of M. Worms-Clavelin, the Jewish _préfet_, devotes
himself, and allow me to enumerate the only too definite complaints
which I have to bring against the professor of rhetoric at the high
seminary. I impugn: first, his doctrine; second, his conduct. I say
that I indict first his doctrine, and that on four grounds: first …”
The Cardinal-Archbishop stretched out both his arms as though to ward
off such a multitude of charges.
“Monsieur Lantaigne, I see that for some time the vicar-general has
been biting his pen and making desperate signs to remind me that our
printer is waiting for our pastoral letter, which has to be read on
Sunday in the churches of our diocese. Allow me to finish dictating
this charge, which, I trust, will bring some solace to our priests and
faithful people.”
Abbé Lantaigne bowed, and very sadly withdrew. After his departure the
Cardinal-Archbishop, turning to M. de Goulet, said:
“I did not know that M. Guitrel was so friendly with the _préfet_.
And I am grateful to the head of the seminary for having warned me
of it. M. Lantaigne is sincerity itself: I prize his frankness and
straightforwardness. With him, one knows where one is …”
He corrected himself:
“Where one would be.”