“It is certain that Abbé Lantaigne would bring to the episcopal
see once sanctified by the apostle Loup both eminent piety and
the precious gifts of eloquence. His Lenten sermons preached at
Saint-Exupère have been justly admired for their logical arrangement of
ideas and power of expression, and it is commonly recognised that some
of the sermons would fall in no respect short of perfection, if there
were present in them that unction, that perfumed and consecrated oil,
if I may dare so to call it, which alone penetrates the heart.
“The curé of Saint-Exupère took pleasure in being the first to
declare that M. Lantaigne, in speaking the word from the pulpit of
the most venerable church in the diocese, had deserved well of the
great apostle of the Gauls who laid the first stone of it, by reason
of an ardour and a zeal whose very excesses were excused by their
benevolent origin. He only deplored the orator’s excursions into the
domain of contemporary history. For it must needs be confessed that
M. Lantaigne has no fear of walking on embers that are still burning.
M. Lantaigne is distinguished by piety, learning and talent. What a
pity that a priest worthy of being raised to the highest positions in
the Church should believe it to be his duty to proclaim a devotion,
doubtless praiseworthy in principle, but reckless in its results, to
an exiled family from whom he has received favours. He takes pleasure
in showing a copy of the _Imitation de Jésus-Christ_, bound in purple
and gold, which was given to him by the Comtesse de Paris, and he
displays far too freely the extent of his gratitude and fidelity. And
what a misfortune that an arrogance, excusable perhaps in such lofty
talent, should lead him even to the lengths of speaking publicly under
the quincunxes about the Cardinal-Archbishop in terms which I dare
not repeat! Alas! failing my voice, all the trees on the Mall would
re-utter these words that fell from the mouth of M. Lantaigne, in the
presence of M. Bergeret, professor of literature: ‘In brain alone, His
Eminence observes the evangelical vow of poverty!’ Such sayings are
habitual with him, and was he not heard to say at the last ordination,
when His Eminence advanced clothed in those pontifical ornaments which
he bears with so much dignity, notwithstanding his short stature:
‘Golden cross, wooden bishop’? Most unseasonably he thus censured the
magnificence with which Monseigneur Charlot delights to celebrate the
offices as well as to regulate the ordering of his official banquets,
and especially the dinner which he gave to the general in command
of the new army-corps, and to which you were invited, Monsieur _le
préfet_. And in particular any better agreement between the prefecture
and the archbishopric offends Abbé Lantaigne, who is far too inclined,
unfortunately, to prolong the painful misunderstandings from which
Church and State suffer equally, in scorn of the precepts of St. Paul
and the teaching of His Holiness Leo XIII.”
The _préfet_ opened his mouth quite wide, being in the habit of
listening with it. He burst out:
“This Lantaigne is steeped in the most detestable spirit of
clericalism! He owes me a grudge? What has he got against me? Am I
not tolerant and liberal enough? Did I not shut my eyes when on all
sides the monks and nuns re-entered the convents, the schools? For if
we vigorously uphold the essential laws of the Republic, we hardly
enforce them. But priests are incorrigible. You are all the same. You
cry out that you are being oppressed as soon as you yourself are not
oppressing. And what does he say about me, this Lantaigne of yours?”
“Nothing definite can be set forth against the administration of M. _le
préfet_ Worms-Clavelin, but an uncompromising soul like M. Lantaigne
never forgives either your association with freemasonry or your Jewish
origin.”
The _préfet_ shook the ash from his cigar. “The Jews are no friends
of mine. I have no ties in the Jewish world. But be tranquil, my dear
abbé, I give you my word that M. Lantaigne shall not be bishop of
Tourcoing. I have enough influence in the bureaux to checkmate him. …
Just listen to me, Guitrel: I had no money when I started out in life.
I made connections for myself. Connections are worth nearly as much as
wealth. I have many and good ones. I shall be on the watch to see that
Abbé Lantaigne cuts his own throat in the bureaux. Besides, my wife has
a candidate for the bishopric of Tourcoing. And that candidate is you,
Guitrel.”
At this word, Abbé Guitrel cast down his eyes and flung up his arms.
“I, sit in the seat sanctified by the blessed Loup and by so many pious
apostles of Northern Gaul! Can such a thought have occurred to Madame
Worms-Clavelin?”
“My dear Guitrel, she wishes that you should wear the mitre. And I
assure you she is powerful enough to create a bishop. For my part, I
shall not be sorry to give a Republican bishop to the Republic. That’s
understood, my dear Guitrel; you look after the Archbishop and the
nuncio; my wife and I will set the bureaux in motion.”
And M. Guitrel murmured with clasped hands:
“The ancient and venerable see of Tourcoing!”
“A third-class bishopric, a mere hole, my dear abbé. But one must
make a beginning. Why! do you know where I started my career in
official life? At Céret! I was _sous-préfet_ of Céret, in the
Pyrénées-Orientales! Would any one credit it? … But I am wasting my
time gossiping … Good evening, Monseigneur.”
The _préfet_ held out his hand to the priest. And M. Guitrel went off
along the winding street of the Tintelleries, humbly and with shoulders
bent, yet planning cunning measures and promising himself, on the day
when he wore the mitre and grasped the crozier, to resist the civil
Government, like a prince of the Church, to fight the freemasons and to
hurl anathemas at the principles of freethought, the Republic, and the
Revolution.