“It behoves me to wait for a more solemn call.”
“What call could be more solemn than the suffrages of so many zealous
Christians, who hail your name with a unanimity that recalls the
ancient popular acclamations with which a Médard and a Remi were
greeted?”
“But, monsieur,” answered honest Lantaigne, “those acclamations, in
the obsolete custom to which you refer, came from the faithful of the
diocese which these holy men were called upon to govern. And I am not
aware that the Catholics of Tourcoing have acclaimed me.”
At this point lawyer Lerond said what had to be said:
“If you do not bar the road for him, M. Guitrel will become a bishop.”
The next day M. Lantaigne had fastened over his shoulders his visiting
cloak, the turned-back wing of which flapped on his sturdy back, the
while on the road to the Archbishop’s palace he besought his God to
spare the Church of France an unmerited disgrace.
His Eminence, at the moment when M. Lantaigne bowed before him,
had just received a letter from the nunciature asking him for a
confidential note about M. Guitrel. The nuncio made no secret of his
liking for a priest reputed to be intelligent and zealous and capable
of being useful in negotiations with the temporal power. His Eminence
had immediately dictated to M. de Goulet a note in favour of the
nuncio’s protégé.
He exclaimed in his pleasant tremulous voice:
“Monsieur Lantaigne, how glad I am to see you!”
“Monseigneur, I have come to ask Your Eminence for your paternal
counsel in case the Holy Father, regarding me with favour, should
nominate me …”
“Very happy to see you, Monsieur Lantaigne. You come just in the nick
of time!”
“I would venture, if Your Eminence did not deem me unworthy of …”
“You are, Monsieur Lantaigne, an eminent theologian and a priest of
the highest possible learning in the canon law. You are an authority
on knotty points of discipline. Your advice is precious on questions
of the liturgy and, in general, on any point that concerns religion.
If you had not come, I was going to send for you, as M. de Goulet can
tell you. At the present moment I am in great need of your insight.”
And Monseigneur, with his gouty hand, well practised in benediction,
waved the principal of the high seminary to a seat.
“Monsieur Lantaigne, be kind enough to listen to me. The venerable M.
Laprune, the curé of Saint-Exupère, is just gone from here. I must tell
you that this poor curé has this morning found a man hanged in his
church. Just conceive his distress! He is beside himself. And in such a
crisis, I myself need to take the advice of the most learned priest in
my diocese. What ought we to do? Tell me!”
M. Lantaigne collected himself for a moment. Then, in the tone of
a pedagogue, he began to expound the traditions concerning the
purification of churches:
“The Maccabees, after having washed the temple profaned by Antiochus
Epiphanes, in the year 164 before the Incarnation, celebrated its
dedication. That is the origin, Monseigneur, of the festival called
Hanicha—that is to say, renewal. In fact …”
And he developed his ideas.
Monseigneur listened with an air of admiration, and M. Lantaigne
drew up from his inexhaustible memory endless texts relating to the
ceremonies of purification, precedents, arguments, commentaries.
“John, Chapter X., verse 22 … the Roman Pontifical … the Venerable
Bede, Baronius …”
He spoke for three-quarters of an hour.
After this the Cardinal-Archbishop replied:
“It should be noted that the hanged man was found in the porch of the
side door, on the epistle side.”
“Was the inner door of the porch closed?” asked M. Lantaigne.
“Alas! alas!” answered Monseigneur, “it was not wide open … but neither
was it completely shut.”
“Ajar, Monseigneur?”
“That’s it! Ajar.”
“And the suicide, Monseigneur, was within the space covered by the
porch? That is a point which it is materially important to ascertain.
Your Eminence perceives the whole importance of that?”
“Assuredly, Monsieur Lantaigne. … Monsieur de Goulet, was there not one
arm of the hanged man which projected from the porch and jutted into
the church?”