“Pardon me, monsieur _le préfet_; that little book, the Catechism,
which it is the fashion to despise in certain quarters, contains more
truths than the great treatises on philosophy which make such a vast
noise in the world. The Catechism unites the most learned metaphysics
with the most effective simplicity. This appreciation is not mine;
it is that of an eminent philosopher, M. Jules Simon, who ranks the
Catechism above Plato’s _Timæus_.”
The _préfet_ dared not contradict the opinion of an ex-minister. He
remembered at the same time that his official superior, the present
Secretary of State for the Home Department, was a Protestant. He said:
“As an official I respect all religions equally, Protestantism as
well as Catholicism. As a man, I am a freethinker, and if I had any
preference as to dogma, let me tell you, monsieur l’abbé, that it
would be in favour of the Reformed Party.”
M. Guitrel replied in an unctuous voice: “There are, doubtless, among
Protestants, many persons eminently estimable from the point of view
of morals, and I dare say many exemplary persons, if they are judged
from the world’s standpoint. But the so-called reformed Church is but a
limb hacked from the Catholic Church, and the place of the wound still
bleeds.”
Indifferent to this powerful phrase, borrowed from Bossuet, M. _le
préfet_ drew from his case a big cigar, lighted it, and holding out the
case to the priest:
“Will you accept a cigar, monsieur l’abbé?”
Being densely ignorant of ecclesiastical discipline, and believing that
tobacco-smoking was forbidden to the clergy, he offered a cigar to M.
Guitrel in order to make him look awkward or to lead him astray. In his
ignorance he believed that by this offer he was leading a wearer of
the cassock into sin, making him fall into disobedience, perhaps into
sacrilege, and almost into apostasy. But M. Guitrel placidly took the
cigar, slipped it carefully into the pocket of his great-coat, and said
urbanely that he would smoke it after supper in his room.
Thus M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin and Abbé Guitrel, professor of
sacred rhetoric at the high seminary, conversed in the goldsmith’s
office. Near them, Rondonneau junior, contractor to the Archbishop,
who also worked for the prefecture, listened to the conversation
discreetly, without taking part in it. He was preparing his mail, and
his bald pate came and went among his account-books and the samples of
commercial jewellery heaped up on the table.
With a brusque movement M. _le préfet_ stood upright, pushed Abbé
Guitrel to the other end of the room, into the recess of the window,
and whispered in his ear:
“My dear Guitrel, you know that the bishopric of Tourcoing is vacant.”
“I have in fact,” answered the priest, “learnt of the death of
Monseigneur Duclou. It is a great loss for the Church of France.
Monseigneur Duclou’s merits were only equalled by his modesty. He
excelled in preaching. His pastoral addresses are models of hortatory
eloquence. Shall I dare to recall to mind that I knew him in Orleans,
at the time when he was still Abbé Duclou, the revered curé of
Saint-Euverte, and that at that time he deigned to honour me with his
gracious friendship? The news of his premature death was particularly
distressing to me.”
He was silent, letting his lips droop in sign of grief.
“It’s not a question of that,” said the _préfet_. “He is dead; it is a
question of filling his place.”
M. Guitrel’s face changed. Now, screwing up his little eyes till they
were quite round, he looked like a rat who sees bacon in the larder.
“You must know, my dear Guitrel,” continued the _préfet_, “that this
business has nothing whatever to do with me. It is not I who appoint
the bishops. I am not the keeper of the seals, nor the nuncio, nor the
Pope. God be thanked!”
And he began to laugh.
“By the bye, on what terms do you stand with the nuncio?”
“The nuncio, monsieur _le préfet_, looks upon me with friendliness, as
a humble and dutiful servant of the Holy Father. But I do not flatter
myself that he especially heeds me, in the humble station in which I
have been placed and where I am content to remain.”
“My dear abbé, if I speak to you about this affair—quite between
ourselves, isn’t it?—it is because there is a question of sending
a priest from my county town to Tourcoing. I hear on good authority
that the name of Abbé Lantaigne, head of the high seminary, is being
brought forward, and it is not impossible that I may be asked to supply
confidential information about the candidate. He is your ecclesiastical
superior. What do you think of him?”