“Monsieur _le préfet_, the resignation of the ministers, having
been accepted by the President of the Republic, is announced in
_l’Officiel_.”
M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin continued his gentle musing, and
M. Lacarelle turned up his long Gallic moustaches and rolled his
china-blue eyes, as a sign that he was about to give expression to a
thought. And, as a matter of fact, he did so.
“Opinions differ as to the fall of the ministry.”
“Really?” asked M. _le préfet_, who was not listening.
“Well! monsieur _le préfet_, it cannot be denied that Mademoiselle
Claudine Deniseau predicted that the ministry would fall at an early
date.”
M. _le préfet_ shrugged his shoulders. He had a mind wise enough to
see that there was nothing marvellous in the fulfilment of such a
prophecy. But Lacarelle, with a profound knowledge of local affairs,
a marvellously contagious stupidity, and an exceptional aptitude for
self-delusion, immediately related to him three or four new stories
which were running through the town, and especially the story of M. de
Gromance, to whom Saint Radegonde had said, in reply to her visitor’s
secret thought: “Be at ease, monsieur _le comte_; the child that your
wife will bear is really your son.” Then Lacarelle returned to the
disclosure of the hidden treasure. Two Roman coins had been found at
the place indicated. The excavations were still going on. There had
also been some cures of which the private secretary gave vague and
rambling descriptions.
M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin listened uncomprehendingly. The mere idea
of the Deniseau girl saddened and worried him. The influence of this
visionary over the townsfolk at large was beyond his understanding. He
was afraid of using his abilities ineffectively in a psychic case such
as this. This fear paralysed his reason, although it was strong enough
in ordinary circumstances. As he listened to Lacarelle, he experienced
a dread of being convinced, and instinctively exclaimed brusquely:
“I don’t believe in such things as these! I don’t believe in them!”
But doubt and anxiety overwhelmed him. He wished to know what Abbé
Guitrel, whom he regarded as both learned and intelligent, thought on
the subject of this prophetess. It was just the time when he would meet
the abbé at the goldsmith’s house. He went to Rondonneau junior’s, and
found him in the inner room, nailing up a case, whilst Abbé Guitrel
examined a silver-gilt vase set on a long stem and surmounted with a
rounded lid.
“That’s a fine chalice, isn’t it, monsieur l’abbé?”
“It is a pyx, monsieur _le préfet_, a ciborium, a vessel intended _ad
ferendos cibos_.[I] In fact, the pyx holds the sacred hosts, the food
of the soul. Formerly they used to keep the pyx in a silver dove hung
over the baptismal font, the altar, or the tomb of a martyr. This one
is decorated in the style of the thirteenth century. An austere and
magnificent style, very suitable, monsieur _le préfet_, for church
furniture, and especially for the sacred vessels.”
[I] To bear the bread.
M. Worms-Clavelin was not listening to the priest, whose restless,
crafty profile he was observing. “Here is the man,” thought he, “who
is going to tell me about Saint Radegonde and the prophetess.” And the
departmental representative of the Republic was already screwing up his
courage, concentrating his energies, lest he should appear weak-minded,
superstitious and credulous, before an ecclesiastic.
“Yes, monsieur _le préfet_” said Abbé Guitrel, “our worthy M.
Rondonneau junior has executed this beautiful specimen of goldsmith’s
work after ancient models. I am inclined to think that they could not
have done better in the Place Saint-Sulpice, in Paris, where the best
goldsmiths are to be found.”
“_À propos_, monsieur l’abbé, what is your opinion of the prophetess
whom our town possesses?”
“What prophetess, monsieur _le préfet_? Do you mean that poor girl who
pretends to be in communication with Saint Radegonde, queen of France?
Alas! monsieur, it cannot possibly be the pious spouse of Clotaire
who suggests to that miserable girl sorry nonsense of every kind and
rhapsodies which, being irreconcilable with good sense, are still less
to be reconciled with theology. Foolery, monsieur _le préfet_, mere
foolery!”
M. Worms-Clavelin, who had prepared some subtle jests concerning
priestly credulity, remained silent.
“No, indeed,” continued M. Guitrel, with a smile, “it is incredible
that Saint Radegonde should suggest this trash, this folly, all these
silly, empty, sometimes heterodox, speeches that fall from the lips
of this young maiden. The voice of the sainted Radegonde would have
another accent, believe me.”
M. LE PRÉFET: “Very little is known, in fact, about this Saint
Radegonde.”
M. GUITREL: “You mistake, monsieur _le préfet_, you mistake!
Saint Radegonde, reverenced by the whole Catholic Church, is the object
of special worship in the diocese of Poitiers, which was formerly
witness of her merits.”
M. LE PRÉFET: “Yes, as you say, monsieur l’abbé, there is a
special …”
M. GUITREL: “Even atheists themselves have regarded this great
figure with admiration. What a sublime picture, monsieur _le préfet_!
After the murder of her brother by her husband, Clotaire’s noble spouse
betakes herself to Bishop Médard at Noyon, and urges him to dedicate
her to God. Taken by surprise, Saint Médard hesitates; he urges the
indissolubility of marriage. But Radegonde herself covers her head with
the veil of a recluse, and flings herself at the feet of the pontiff,
who, overcome by the saintly persistence of the queen, and braving the
wrath of the savage monarch, offers this blessed victim to God.”
M. LE PRÉFET: “But, monsieur l’abbé, do you approve of a
bishop defying the civil powers in that fashion and abetting the wife
of his overlord in her revolt? The deuce! if these are your opinions, I
shall be grateful to you for telling me so.”
M. GUITREL: “Alas! monsieur _le préfet_, I have not, as
the blessed Médard had, the illumination of sanctity to enable me
to discern the will of God in extraordinary circumstances. Luckily
nowadays the rules which a bishop should follow with regard to the
civil powers are definitely defined. And monsieur _le préfet_ will
kindly remember, in speaking of me for the bishopric of Tourcoing to
his friends in the ministry, that I recognise all the obligations that
follow from the Concordat. But why intrude my humble personality in
these great scenes of history? Saint Radegonde, clothed in the veil of
a deaconess, founded the monastery of Sainte-Croix in Poitiers, where
she lived for more than fifty years in the practice of a rigorous
asceticism. She observed fasts and abstinences with such scrupulousness
…”
M. LE PRÉFET: “Keep these stories of yours, monsieur
l’abbé for your seminarists. You don’t believe that Saint Radegonde
communicates with Mademoiselle Deniseau. I congratulate you on
that. And I could wish that all the priests in the department were
as reasonable as you. But it only needs this hysteric patient—for
hysteric she is—to attack the government for all the curés to come in
herds to listen, open-mouthed and applauding, to all the insults she
spits out.”
M. GUITREL: “Oh! they make reservations, monsieur _le préfet_,
they make reservations. The Church instructs them to be extremely wary
in face of every fact that assumes the appearance of a miracle. And I
assure you that, for my part, I am very distrustful of modern miracles.”
M. LE PRÉFET: “Tell me, between ourselves: you don’t believe
in miracles, my dear abbé?”
M. GUITREL: “In miracles that are not duly verified I have,
indeed, but little belief.”
M. LE PRÉFET: “We are alone. Confess, now, that there are no
miracles, that there never have been any, and that there never can
possibly be any.”
M. GUITREL: “Not at all, monsieur _le préfet_. A miracle is
possible; it can be unmistakably recognised; it is useful for the
confirmation of doctrine; and its utility is proved by the conversion
of nations.”
M. LE PRÉFET: “Anyhow, you grant that it is ridiculous to
believe that Saint Radegonde, who lived in the Middle Ages …”