That day the Duc de Brécé was entertaining General Cartier de Chalmot,
Abbé Guitrel, and Lerond, the ex-deputy, at Brécé. They had visited the
stables, the kennels, the pheasantry, and had been talking, all the
time, about the Affair.
As the twilight fell, they commenced to stroll slowly along the great
avenue of the park. Before them the château rose up, in the dapple grey
sky, with its heavy façade laden with pediments and crowned with the
high-pitched roofs of the Empire period.
“I am convinced,” said M. de Brécé, “as I said before, that the fuss
made over this affair is, and can only be, some abominable plot
instigated by the enemies of France.”
“And of religion,” gently added Abbé Guitrel. “It is impossible to be a
good Frenchman without being a good Christian. And it is clear that the
scandal was started in the first place by freethinkers and freemasons,
by Protestants.”
“And Jews,” went on M. de Brécé, “Jews and Germans. What unheard-of
audacity to question the decision of a court martial! For, when all is
said and done, it is quite impossible for seven French officers to have
made a mistake.”
“No, of course, that is not to be thought of,” said the Abbé Guitrel.
“Generally speaking,” put in M. Lerond, “a miscarriage of justice is a
most improbable thing. I would even go so far as to say an impossible
thing, inasmuch as the law protects the accused in so many ways. I am
speaking of civil law, and I say the same of martial law. As far as
courts martial are concerned, even supposing the prisoner’s interest to
be less thoroughly safeguarded owing to the comparatively summary form
of procedure, he finds all necessary security in the character of his
judges. To my mind it is an insult to the Army, to doubt the legality
of a verdict delivered by a court martial.”
“You are quite correct,” replied the Duke. “Besides, can anyone
really believe seven French officers to be mistaken? Is such a thing
conceivable, General?”
“Hardly,” replied General Cartier de Chalmot. “It would take a great
deal to make me believe it.”
“A syndicate of treachery!” cried M. de Brécé. “The thing is unheard
of!”
Conversation flagged and fell. The Duke and the General had just caught
sight of some pheasants in a clearing, and, smitten simultaneously with
the burning and instinctive desire to kill, mentally recorded a regret
at having no guns with them.
“You have the finest coverts in the district,” said the General to the
Duc de Brécé.
The Duke was deep in thought.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” he remarked, “the Jews will never be
any good to France.”
The Duc de Brécé, eldest son of the late Duke--who had cut a dash among
the light-horse at the Assemblée de Versailles--had entered public life
after the death of the Comte de Chambord. He had never known the days
of hope, the hours of ardent struggle, of monarchical enterprises as
exciting as a conspiracy and as impassioned as an act of faith. He had
never seen the tapestried bed offered to the Prince by noble ladies,
nor the banners, the flags and the white horses which were to bring the
King to his own again. By right of birth as a Brécé he took his place
as deputy at the Palais-Bourbon, nourishing a secret enmity against the
Comte de Paris, and a hidden wish never to see the restoration, if it
were to be in favour of the younger branch of the Royal Family. With
this one exception he was a loyal and faithful Royalist. He was drawn
into intrigues which he did not understand, made a hopeless muddle of
his votes, spent his money freely in Paris, and when the elections took
place found himself defeated at Brécé by Dr. Cotard.
From that day onward he devoted his time to farming, to his family
and to religion. All that remained of his hereditary domain, which
in 1789 was composed of one hundred and twelve parishes, comprising
one hundred and seventy “Hommages,” four “Terres titrés,” and
eighteen manors, was about two thousand acres of land and forest
around the historic castle of Brécé. In his department the Brécé
coverts invested him with a lustre that he had never enjoyed at the
Palais-Bourbon. The forests of Brécé and La Guerche, in which Francis I
had hunted, were also celebrated in the ecclesiastical history of the
district, for in these woods was situated the time-honoured chapel of
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles.
“Now mark what I tell you,” repeated the Duc de Brécé, “the Jews will
bring misfortune upon France. Why don’t we get rid of them? Nothing
would be easier!”
“It would be a great thing,” replied the magistrate, “but not so easy
as you imagine, M. le Duc. In the first place, if you wish in any way
to affect the position of the Jews in this country, you must make new
laws on naturalization. Now it is always difficult to make a law which
will satisfactorily fulfil the intentions of the legislator, and laws
such as these would affect the whole of our legal system, and would,
moreover, be extremely difficult to draft. Then, unfortunately, we
could never be certain of finding a Government ready to propose or
support them, nor a Parliament to carry them. The Senate is no good.
As history unrolls itself before our eyes we make the discovery that
the eighteenth century is one huge error of the human understanding,
and that social as well as religious truths are to be found in their
full completeness only in the traditions of the Middle Ages. By and by
France will find it necessary--as Russia has done with regard to the
Jews--to revert to the procedure adopted in those feudal times which
offer the best example of the typical Christian state.”
“Naturally,” said the Duke, “Christian France should belong to
Frenchmen and Christians, not to Jews and Protestants.”
“Bravo!” cried the General.
“There was a younger son in our family,” went on the Duke, “called
Nez-d’Argent--I don’t know why--who fought in the provinces during
the reign of Charles IX. On that tree whose leafless top you see over
there, he hanged six hundred and thirty-six Huguenots. Well, I must
confess I am proud of being a descendant of Nez-d’Argent. I have
inherited his hatred of heretics, and I hate Jews in the same way that
he hated Protestants.”
“Such sentiments are most praiseworthy, M. le Duc,” remarked the
Abbé, “most laudable, and worthy of the great name you bear. But,
if you will allow me, I will make a comment on just one point. In
the Middle Ages the Jews were not considered heretics, and, properly
speaking, they are not heretics. The heretic is a man who, having been
baptized, and instructed in the doctrines of the faith, misrepresents
or denies them. Such are, or rather were, the Arians, the Albigenses,
the Novatians, the Montanists, the Priscillianists, the Waldenses,
the Anabaptists, and the Calvinists, so cleverly disposed of by your
illustrious ancestor, Nez-d’Argent; not to mention many other sects
who upheld doctrines contrary to the beliefs of the Church. The number
of them is very great, for variety is a characteristic of error. There
is no stopping on the downward path of heresy; and schism reproduces
and multiplies itself _ad infinitum_. All that one finds opposing the
true Church is the dust and ashes of churches. The other day, when
reading Bossuet, I came across an admirable definition of a heretic.
‘A heretic,’ says Bossuet, ‘is one who holds an opinion of his own;
one who acts according to his own ideas and his own feelings.’ Now the
Jew, who has never received baptism nor been instructed in the truth,
cannot rightly be called a heretic.
“And again we see that the Inquisition never chastised a Jew as such,
and if a Jew was handed over to earthly justice it was because he was a
blasphemer, a profane person, or a corrupter of the faithful. A better
name for the Jew would be infidel, because that is the name we give
to those who, being unbaptized, do not believe in the truths of the
Christian religion. Again, we must not, strictly speaking, look upon
the Jew as an infidel, in the same way as we should a Mohammedan or an
idolater. The Jews occupy a unique and singular position in the economy
of the eternal verities. Theology bestows upon them a designation
conformable to their rôle in history. They were called ‘witnesses’ in
the Middle Ages, and we must admire the force and precision of such a
term. The reason why God allows them to live is that they may serve as
witnesses and sureties for the words and deeds upon which our religion
is founded. We must not go so far as to say that God purposely makes
the Jews obstinate and blind to serve as living proofs of Christianity;
but He utilizes their free and voluntary stubbornness to confirm us in
our belief. It is for that reason that He allows them a place among the
nations.”
“But in the meanwhile,” put in the Duke, “they rob us of our money and
destroy our national energy.”
“And they insult the Army,” said General Cartier de Chalmot. “Or rather
it is insulted by the wretches in their pay.”
“And that is a crime,” remarked the Abbé gently. “The salvation of
France depends upon the alliance of the Church and the Army.”
“Well, then, M. l’Abbé, why do you defend the Jews?” demanded the Duc
de Brécé.
“Far from defending them,” replied the Abbé Guitrel, “I condemn their
unpardonable sin, which is to deny the divinity of Jesus Christ. On
this point their obstinacy is invincible. Their own belief is rational
enough, but they do not believe all that they should, and that is why
they have drawn so heavy a blame upon themselves. This blame rests upon
the Jews as a nation, and not as individuals, and cannot touch any who
have been converted to Christianity.”
“For my part,” said the Duke, “converted Jews are just as odious to me,
more odious even, than other Jews. It is the race I dislike.”
“Allow me to say I do not believe you, M. le Duc,” said the Abbé. “For
that would be to sin against charity and the teaching of the Church. I
am sure that, like myself, you are grateful to a certain extent to some
unconverted Jews for their liberal donations towards our charities.
It is impossible to deny, for instance, that families like the R----
and the F---- have, in this respect, shown an example which might well
be followed by all Christian families. I will go so far as to say that
Madame Worms-Clavelin, although not openly converted to Catholicism,
has on several occasions given proof of truly divine inspiration. It
is to the _préfet’s_ wife that we owe the tolerance with which in the
midst of general persecution our Church schools are regarded in this
department. As for Madame de Bonmont, who is a Jewess by birth, she is
a true Christian indeed, and takes pattern to a certain extent by those
holy widows who in centuries past gave a part of their riches to the
churches and the poor.”
“The Bonmonts’ real name is Gutenberg,” put in M. Lerond. “They are
of German extraction. The grandfather amassed his riches by the
manufacture of the two poisons, absinth and vermuth, and was imprisoned
no less than three times for infringement and adulteration. The father,
who was a manufacturer and a financier, made a scandalous fortune
through speculation and monopoly. Subsequently his widow presented a
golden ciborium to Monseigneur Charlot. That sort of people always
makes me think of the two attorneys who, after listening to a sermon
by good Father Maillard, said to each other at the church door, ‘Well,
neighbour, have we got to disgorge?’”
“It is an extraordinary thing,” said M. Lerond, “that the Semitic
question has never arisen in England.”
“That is because the English are not made the same as we are,” said the
Duke. “Their blood is not so hot as ours.”
“True,” said M. Lerond. “I fully appreciate that remark; but it may
arise from the fact that the English engage all their capital in trade,
while our hard-working population save theirs for speculation; in other
words, for the Jews. The whole trouble arises from having to submit
to the laws and customs of the Revolution. Salvation lies in a speedy
return to the old regime.”
“That’s true,” said the Duc de Brécé thoughtfully.
They walked along, chatting as they went. Suddenly a char-à-banc passed
them, bowling along the road thrown open to the inhabitants of the town
by the late Duke. Filled with laughing, noisy people, it went swiftly
past them; amongst the countrywomen with their flower-bedecked hats,
and the farmers in blouses, sat a jovial red-bearded fellow smoking a
pipe. He was pretending to aim at imaginary pheasants with his cane
as they passed by. It was Dr. Cotard, member for the Brécé district,
member for the ancient seigniory of Brécé.
“That, at any rate, is a strange sight,” said M. Lerond, brushing off
the dust raised by the char-à-banc, “to see Cotard, the medical officer
of health, representing this district, upon which your ancestors, M.
le Duc, showered benefits and glories for eight hundred years. Only
yesterday I was rereading in M. de Terremondre’s book the letter which
your great-great-grandfather, the Duc de Brécé, wrote in 1787 to his
steward, and which proves how kind-hearted he was. You remember the
letter, do you not?”
The Duke replied that he remembered the letter in question, but could
not be sure of the precise terms employed.
M. Lerond immediately began to recite by heart the principal phrases of
this touching letter. “I have learned,” wrote the Good Duke, “that the
inhabitants of Brécé are forbidden to gather strawberries in the woods.
People are evidently doing their best to make me disliked, and that
would be a terrible grief to me.”
“I have also found,” continued M. Lerond, “some interesting details on
the life of the good Duc de Brécé in M. de Terremondre’s summary. The
Duke spent the worst days of the Revolution here on his estate without
being in any way molested, for his good deeds gained him the love and
respect of his old retainers. In exchange for the titles of which by
a decree of the National Assembly he was deprived he received that of
Commander of the National Guard of Brécé. M. de Terremondre goes on to
tell us that on the 20th of September, 1792, the municipality of Brécé
assembled in the courtyard of the castle, and there planted a tree to
Liberty, to which was suspended this inscription, ‘Hommage à la vertu!’”
“M. de Terremondre,” returned the Duke, “drew his information from
the archives of my family. I myself asked him to go into them, for,
unfortunately, I have never had the time to do so. Duke Louis de Brécé,
of whom you were speaking, surnamed ‘the Good Duke,’ died of grief
in 1794. He was gifted with a kindness of disposition which even the
Revolutionists themselves delighted to honour. Every one recognizes the
fact that he distinguished himself by his loyalty to his King; that he
was a good master, a good father, and a good husband. You must take
no notice of the so-called revelations of a man called Mazure, who is
keeper of the departmental archives. According to him the ‘Good Duke’s’
benevolence was confined to his prettiest vassals, on whom he liked to
exercise his ‘droit de jambage.’ As far as that goes, this particular
right to which I allude is of a very problematical nature, and I have
never been able to discover a trace of it among the Brécé archives,
which, by the way, have been in part destroyed.”
“This right,” said M. Lerond, “if it ever did exist at all, was nothing
more nor less than a payment in meat or wine which serfs were called
upon to bring to their lord before contracting marriage. If I remember
rightly, there were certain localities where this tax existed, and was
paid in ready money to the value of three halfpence.”
“With regard to that,” went on the Duke, “I consider my ancestor
entirely exonerated from the accusations brought against him by this M.
Mazure, who, I am told, is a dangerous man. Unfortunately----” The Duke
heaved a slight sigh, and continued in a lower and mysterious voice:
“Unfortunately, the Good Duke was in the habit of reading pernicious
books. Whole editions of Voltaire and Rousseau, bound in morocco and
stamped with the Brécé coat of arms, have been discovered in the castle
library. He fell, to a certain extent, under the detestable influence
of the philosophical thought that was rampant among all classes of
people towards the end of the eighteenth century, even among those in
the highest society. He was possessed of a mania for writing, and was
the author of certain Memoirs, the manuscript of which is still in my
possession. Both the Duchess and M. de Terremondre have glanced through
it. It is surprising to find there traces of the Voltairian spirit, and
the Duke now and then shows his partiality for the Encyclopædists. He
used, in fact, to correspond with Diderot. That is why I have thought
it wise to withhold my consent to the publication of these Memoirs, in
spite of the request of some of the savants of the district, and of M.
de Terremondre himself.
“The Good Duke could turn a rhyme quite prettily, and he filled
whole books with madrigals, epigrams, and stories. That is
quite excusable. A far more serious matter, however, is that he
sometimes permitted himself to jeer at the ceremonies of our holy
religion, and even at the miracles performed by the intervention
of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles. I beg, gentlemen, that you will
say nothing of all this; it must remain strictly between ourselves.
I should be very sorry to hand over anecdotes such as these to
feed the unhealthy curiosity of men like M. Mazure, and the malice
of the public in general. The Duc de Brécé in question was my
great-great-grandfather, and my family pride is great. I am sure you
will not blame me for this.”
“Much valuable instruction and great consolations are to be derived
from what you have just related to us, Monsieur,” said the Abbé. “The
conclusion we arrive at is that France, which in the eighteenth century
had turned away from Christianity, and was so steeped in wickedness,
even to the very greatest in the land, that good men, such as your
noble great-great-grandfather, pandered to the false philosophy;
France, I say, punished for her crimes by a terrible revolution, is
now amending her evil ways, and witnessing the return to piety of all
classes of the nation, especially in the highest circles. Examples
such as yours, Monsieur, are not to be ignored, and if the eighteenth
century, taken altogether, appears as the century of crime, the
nineteenth, judging by the attitude of the aristocracy, may, if I
mistake not, be called the century of public penance.”
“God grant that you are right,” sighed M. Lerond. “But I dare not allow
myself to hope. My profession as a man of law brings me into contact
with the masses, and I invariably find them indifferent, and even
hostile to religion. Let me tell you, M. l’Abbé, that my experience of
the world leads me to share in the deep sorrow of the Abbé Lantaigne,
and not in your optimistic view of things. Now, without going further
afield, do you not see that this Christian land of Brécé has become the
fief of the atheist and freemason, Dr. Cotard?”
“And who can say,” demanded the General, “whether the Duke will not
unseat Dr. Cotard at the next elections? I am told that a contest is
more than probable, and that a good number of electors are in favour of
the château.”
“My decision is unalterable,” replied the Duke, “and nothing can
make me change it. I shall not stand again. I have not the necessary
qualifications to represent the electors of Brécé, and the electors of
Brécé have not the necessary qualifications for me to wish to represent
them.”
This speech had been composed by his secretary, M. Lacrisse, at the
time of his electoral reverse, and since then he had made a point of
quoting it on every possible occasion.
Just at that moment three ladies, descending the terrace steps, came
along the great drive towards them.
They were the three Brécé ladies, the mother, wife, and daughter of the
present Duke. They were all tall, massive, and freckled, with smooth
hair tightly plastered back, and clad in black dresses and thick boots.
They were on their way to the church of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles,
situated by the side of a well half-way between the town and the
château.
The General suggested that they should accompany the ladies.
“Nothing could be more delightful,” said M. Lerond.
“True,” assented the Abbé, “and all the more so because the sacred
edifice, which has lately been restored and richly redecorated by the
care of the Duke, is most delightful to see.”
The Abbé Guitrel took a special interest in the chapel of
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles, of which, in archæological and pious
vein, he had written a history, for the purpose of attracting pilgrims
to the shrine. According to him the church dated from the reign of
Clotaire II. “At this period,” wrote the historian, “St. Austrégisile,
full of years and good works, and exhausted by his apostolic labours,
built with his own hands in this desert spot a hut, where he could pass
his days in meditation, and await the approach of blessed death; he
also erected an oratory, in which he placed a miraculous statue of the
Blessed Virgin.”
This assertion had been vigorously contested by M. Mazure in the
_Phare_. The keeper of the departmental archives maintained that the
worship of Mary came well after the sixth century, and that at the
time in which St. Austrégisile was supposed to have lived there were
no statues of the Virgin. To which the Abbé Guitrel replied in the
_Semaine Religieuse_ that before the birth of Jesus Christ the Druids
themselves worshipped the image of the Virgin who was to bear a son,
and thus our old earth that was to witness the remarkable spread of
the worship of Mary contained her altars and images, prophetic in
significance as the warnings of the sibyls, to herald her appearance
upon it. Therefore, argued he, there was nothing strange in St.
Austrégisile’s possessing an image of the Blessed Virgin as early as
the reign of Clotaire II. M. Mazure had treated the arguments of the
Abbé as idle fancies, and no one, save M. Bergeret, whose curiosity was
unbounded, had read the record of this logomachy.
“The sanctuary erected by the holy apostle,” went on the Abbé Guitrel’s
pamphlet, “was rebuilt with great magnificence in the thirteenth
century. At the time of the wars of religion that devastated the
country during the sixteenth century, the Protestants fired the chapel,
without, however, being able to destroy the statue, which by a miracle
escaped the flames. The church was rebuilt at the behest of King
Louis XIV and his pious mother, but during the Reign of Terror was
totally destroyed by the commissioners of the Convention, who carried
the miraculous statue, together with the furniture of the chapel, into
the courtyard at Brécé and made a bonfire of the whole. Fortunately,
however, one of the Virgin’s feet was saved from the flames by a good
peasant-woman, who wrapped it carefully in old rags and hid it in a
cauldron, where it was discovered in 1815. This foot was included in a
new statue which, thanks to the generosity of the Duke, was executed in
Paris in 1852.”
The Abbé Guitrel went on to enumerate the miracles accomplished from
the sixth century up to the present time by the intervention of
Notre-Dames-des-Belles-Feuilles, who was in particular request for
the cure of diseases of the respiratory organs and the lungs. And he
further affirmed that in 1871 she had turned the Germans aside from the
town and miraculously healed of their wounds two soldiers quartered at
the château of Brécé, which had been turned into a hospital.
* * * * *
They reached the bottom of a narrow valley with a stream
flowing between moss-grown stones. On an irregular platform of
sandstone, surrounded by dwarf oak trees, rose the oratory of
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles, newly constructed from the plans of M.
Quatrebarbe, the diocesan architect, in that modern namby-pamby style
which people fondly imagine to be Gothic.
“This oratory,” said the Abbé Guitrel, “was burned down in 1559 by
the Calvinists, and again in 1793 by the revolutionaries, and nothing
remained but a mass of ruins. Like another Nehemiah, the Duc de Brécé
has rebuilt the sanctuary. The Pope, this year, has granted to it
numerous indulgences, no doubt with the object of quickening the
worship of the Blessed Virgin in this country. Monseigneur Charlot
himself celebrated the Holy Eucharist here, and since then pilgrims
have flocked to the shrine. They come from all parts of the diocese,
and even farther. There is no doubt that such co-operation and zeal
must draw special blessings on the country. I myself had the felicity
of bringing to the feet of la Vierge des Belles-Feuilles several
respectable families of the Tintelleries. And, with the permission of
the Duke, I have more than once celebrated Mass at this favoured altar.”
“That is true,” said the Duchess. “And it is noticeable that the Abbé
takes more interest in our chapel than the Curé of Brécé himself.”
“Good M. Traviès!” said the Duke. “He is an excellent priest, but an
inveterate sportsman, and all he thinks of is shooting. The other day,
on returning from the administration of extreme unction to a dying man,
he brought down three partridges.”
“Now that the branches are devoid of leaves,” said the Abbé, “you can
see the chapel, which, in the summer, is entirely hidden by the thick
foliage.”
“One of the reasons which made me determine to rebuild the chapel of
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles,” said the Duke, “was that on examining
the family archives, I found that the battle-cry of the Brécés was
‘Brécé Notre-Dame!’”
“How very strange!” remarked General Cartier de Chalmot.
“Is it not?” replied Madame de Brécé.
Just as the ladies, followed by M. Lerond, were crossing the rustic
bridge that spans the stream, a ragged girl of thirteen or fourteen,
with hair of the same dirty white colour as her face, slipping from a
copse on the opposite side of the hollow, ran up the steps and rushed
into the oratory.
“There’s Honorine,” said Madame de Brécé.
“I’ve been wanting to see her for a long time,” said M. Lerond, “and I
must thank you, Madame, for being the means of satisfying my curiosity.
I have heard so much about her!”
“Yes, indeed,” said General Cartier de Chalmot. “The young girl in
question has been subjected to many and searching inquiries.”
“M. de Goulet,” put in the Abbé, “comes regularly to the sanctuary of
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles. It is his pleasure and delight to spend
long hours in adoration of her whom he calls his mother.”
“We are very fond of M. de Goulet,” said Madame de Brécé. “What a pity
it is that he should be so delicate.”
“Yes, alas!” replied the Abbé. “His strength diminishes from day to
day!”
“He ought to take more care of himself,” went on the Duchess, “and rest
as much as possible.”
“How can he, Madame?” asked the Abbé. “The management of the diocese
fills up every moment of his time.”
As the three ladies, the General, M. Guitrel, M. Lerond, and the Duke
entered the chapel, they saw Honorine, as in an ecstasy, kneeling at
the foot of the altar.
With clasped hands, and uplifted head, the child knelt there
motionless. Out of respect for her mysterious condition, they crossed
themselves silently with holy water, letting their gaze wander from the
Gothic tabernacle and fall upon the stained-glass windows, in which the
Comte de Chambord appeared in the guise of St. Henry, while the faces
of St. John the Baptist and St. Guy were executed from photographs of
Comte Jean, who died in 1867, and the late Comte Guy, who, in 1871, was
a member of the Bordeaux Assembly.
The miraculous statue was covered by a veil, and stood just over the
altar. But above the holy-water stoup, painted in bright colours upon
the wall was a full-length figure of Notre-Dame de Lourdes, girdled
with blue.
The General looked at her with a set expression derived from fifty
years of mechanical respect, and gazed at her blue scarf as though it
had been the flag of a friendly nation. He had always been looked upon
as something of a mystic, and had considered a belief in the future
life to be the very base and foundation-stone of military regulations.
Age and ill-health were making a devotee of him. For some days past,
though he did not betray it, he had been, if not worried, at any rate
grieved, by the recent scandals. His simple-mindedness had taken fright
at such a tumult of words and passions, and he was obsessed by vague
misgivings. He sent up a voiceless prayer to Notre-Dame de Lourdes,
imploring her protection for the French Army.
All of them, the women, the Duke, the lawyer, and the priest, had by
this time riveted their gaze upon the worn shoes of the motionless
Honorine, and these sombre, solemn, solid folk fell into an ecstasy of
admiration at the sight of the lithe young body, now stiff and rigid;
M. Lerond, who prided himself on being very observant, made sundry
observations.
At last, however, Honorine came out of her trance. She rose to her
feet, bowed to the altar, and turned round; then, as though astonished
at the sight of so many people, stood stock still and brushed away with
both hands the hair that had fallen over her eyes.
“Well, my child, did you see the Blessed Virgin to-day?” asked Madame
de Brécé.
In the shrill sing-song voice of a child in the catechism class
answering by rote, Honorine replied:
“Yes, Madame. The good Virgin remained for one moment, then rolled up
like a piece of calico, and I didn’t see her any more.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘There is much misery in your home.’”
“Is that all she said?”
“She said, ‘There will be much misery in the country over the harvests
and the cattle.’”
“Did she not tell you to be good?”
“‘Pray continually,’ she said to me, and then she said like this, ‘I
greet you. There is much misery in your home.’”
And the words of the child rang out in the imposing silence.
“Was the Blessed Virgin very beautiful?” again questioned Madame de
Brécé.
“Yes, Madame. But one eye and one cheek were missing, because I had not
prayed long enough.”
“Had she a crown upon her head?” asked M. Lerond, who, as an ex-member
of the magistracy, was inquisitive and fond of asking questions.
Honorine hesitated, and then, with a cunning look, replied:
“Her crown was on one side.”
“Right or left?” asked M. Lerond.
“Right and left,” answered Honorine.
Madame de Brécé intervened:
“What do you mean, my child, that it was first on the right and then on
the left? Isn’t that what you mean?” But Honorine would not answer.
She was in the habit sometimes of indulging in obstinate silences,
standing, as now, with lowered eyes, rubbing her chin on her shoulder
and fidgeting. They stopped questioning her, and she slipped out and
away, when the Duke began forthwith to explain her case.
Honorine Porrichet, the daughter of a small farmer who had lived all
his life at Brécé and had fallen into the direst poverty, had always
been a sickly child. Her intelligence had developed so slowly and
tardily, that at first she was looked upon as an idiot. The Curé
used to reproach her for her wild disposition and the habit she had
of hiding in the woods; he did not like her. But some enlightened
priests who saw and questioned her could find in her nothing evil. She
frequented churches, and would linger there lost in dreams unusual
in a child of her age. Her zeal grew at the approach of her first
communion. At that time she fell a victim to consumption, and the
doctors gave her up. Dr. Cotard, among others, said there was no hope
for her. When the new oratory of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles was
inaugurated by Monseigneur Charlot, Honorine assiduously frequented
it. She fell into ecstasies when there, and saw visions. She saw the
Blessed Virgin, who said to her, “I am Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles!”
One day Mary approached her, and, laying a finger upon her throat, told
her she was cured.
“It was Honorine herself who came back with this remarkable story,”
added the Duke, “and she related it several times with the utmost
simplicity. People have said that her story was never twice the same;
what is certain, however, is that any inconsistency on her part only
concerned the minor details of the narrative. What is also certain is
that she suddenly ceased to suffer from the disease that was killing
her. The doctors who examined and sounded her immediately after the
miraculous apparition found nothing wrong either with the bronchial
tubes or the lungs. Dr. Cotard himself confessed that he could make
nothing of the cure.”
“What do you think of these facts?” said M. Lerond to the Abbé.
“They are worthy of attention,” replied the priest, “and give rise, in
all honest observers, to more than one reflexion. It would certainly be
impossible to study them too assiduously. I can say no more. I should
certainly never put aside such interesting and consoling facts with
bold contempt like M. Lantaigne, neither should I dare, like M. de
Goulet, to call them miracles. I reserve my opinion.”
“In Honorine Porrichet’s case,” said the Duke, “we must consider
both the remarkable cure, which I am right in saying was directly
opposed to medical knowledge, and the visions which she declares
to be vouchsafed to her. Now you are aware, M. l’Abbé, that when
the girl’s eyes were photographed, during one of her trances, the
negatives obtained by the photographer, of whose good faith there is
not the shadow of a doubt, contained the figure of the Blessed Virgin,
imprinted upon the pupil of the eye. Certain persons whose evidence
can be relied on swear to having seen the photographs, and to having
distinguished, with the aid of a strong magnifying-glass, the statue of
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles.”
“These facts are worthy of notice,” repeated the Abbé, “worthy of the
most careful attention. But one must be able to suspend judgment, and
not rush to premature conclusions. Let us not, like the unbelievers,
form hasty conclusions, prompted by passion. In the matter of
miracles, the Church exercises the greatest caution; she requires
proofs, indisputable proofs.”
M. Lerond asked whether it were possible to obtain the photographs
which portrayed the image of the Blessed Virgin in the eyes of little
Honorine Porrichet, and the Duke promised to write on the subject
to the photographer, whose studio, he thought, was in the Place
Saint-Exupère.
“Anyhow,” put in Madame de Brécé, “little Honorine is a very good, nice
little girl. She must be under the special protection of Providence,
for her parents, who are overcome with illness and want, have abandoned
her. I have made inquiries, and understand that her conduct is good.”
“That is more than can be said of all the village girls of her age,”
added the dowager duchess.
“That is only too true,” said the Duke. “The peasant classes are
growing more and more demoralized. I will tell you of some terrible
instances, General, but as for little Honorine, she is innocence
itself.”
* * * * *
While the foregoing conversation was being held on the threshold of the
church, Honorine had rejoined Isidore in the copses of La Guerche. He
was lying on a bed of dead leaves, waiting impatiently, partly because
he thought she would bring him something to eat, or some coppers,
partly because he loved her, for she was his sweetheart. It was he who
had seen the ladies and gentlemen from the château on their way to the
church, and had immediately sought out Honorine, to give her time to
reach the church before them, and to fall into a trance.
“What have they given you?” he demanded. “Let me see.”
And, as she had brought nothing, he struck her, but without hurting her
very much. In return she scratched and bit him, then said:
“What’s that for?”
“Swear that they didn’t give you anything!” he said.
She swore, and, having sucked away the blood that was trickling down
their thin arms, they were reconciled. Then, for the want of something
better to do, they fell back upon the pleasure that each was able to
bestow upon the other.
Isidore, whose mother was a widow, a bad woman given to drink, had
no recognized father. He spent all his time in the woods, and nobody
bothered about him. Although he was two years younger than Honorine,
he was well versed in the practices of love, about the only need in
his life of which he found no lack, under the trees of La Guerche,
Lénonville, and Brécé. His love-making with Honorine was only by way
of killing time, and for want of something better to do. Occasionally
Honorine would be roused to a certain amount of interest, but she could
not attach much importance to such commonplace, everyday actions, and a
rabbit, a bird, or an uncommon-looking insect, would often be enough to
change the entire current of their thoughts.
* * * * *
M. de Brécé returned to the château with his guests. The cold walls
of the hall bristled with the evidences of massacre; antlers of deer,
heads of young stags and of old veterans, which, in spite of the
taxidermist’s care, were moth-eaten, and retained in their staring
glass eyes something of the agonized sweat of a creature at bay,
equivalent to human tears.
Horns, antlers, bleached bones, severed heads, trophies, by means of
which the victims honoured their illustrious slayers, the noblemen of
France, and Bourbons of Naples and Spain. Under the great staircase
stood a sort of amphibious chariot, shaped like a boat, the body of
which could be removed, and was used for the purpose of crossing rivers
when hunting. It was looked upon as sacred, because it had once been
used by exiled kings.
The Abbé Guitrel carefully placed his big cotton umbrella beneath the
black visage of a ferocious wild boar, and led the way through a door
on the left, flanked by two tortured-looking caryatides by Ducereau, to
a drawing-room, where the three Brécé ladies, who had been the first to
return, were already sitting with their friend and neighbour, Madame de
Courtrai.
Dressed in black, owing to the interminable series of deaths in their
own and the Royal Family, they sat there, nunlike and rustic in their
extreme simplicity, chatting of marriages and deaths, of illnesses and
their remedies.
On the painted ceiling above them, and on the panelled walls, amid
the sombre rows of portraits, one caught an occasional glimpse of a
grey-bearded Henri IV in the embrace of a full-bosomed Minerva; or the
pale face of Louis XIII in close juxtaposition to the heavy Flemish
figures of Victory and Mercy in loosely flowing robes; or, again, the
naked body, brick-red in hue, of an old man, Father Time, sparing the
fleurs de lis; and anywhere and everywhere the dimpled legs of little
boys supporting the Brécé coat of arms with the three golden torches.
All the while the dowager duchess was busy knitting black woollen
scarves for the poor. Since those far off days when she had embroidered
a counterpane for the bed at Chambord on which the king was to sleep,
she had knitted continuously, occupying her hands, and satisfying her
heart withal.
The tables and consoles were covered with photographs, in frames of
all colours and sizes, some resembling easels, some of porcelain or
plush, others of crystal, nickel, shagreen, carved wood or stamped
leather-work. There were some, again, like gilded horse-shoes, others
like palettes covered with colours and brushes, some shaped like
chestnut leaves or butterflies.
In this assortment of frames were portraits of men, women, and
children, relations by blood or by marriage; of princes belonging
to the house of Bourbon, of Church dignitaries, of the Comte de
Chambord, and Pope Pius IX. On the right of the fire-place in the
middle of an old console supported by gilded Turks, like a spiritual
father, Monseigneur Charlot smiled all over his broad face at the
young soldiers grouped closely around him, officers, brigadiers, and
privates, wearing upon their heads, their necks, and their breasts all
the martial decoration allowed by a democratic army to her cavalry. He
smiled at young men dressed in cycling or polo kit; he smiled at young
girls. Ladies covered the folding tables, ladies of all ages, some
of them with the decided features of men, but a few among them quite
pretty.
“‘Mame’ de Courtrai!” cried M. de Brécé, as he entered the room behind
the General. “How are you, dear ‘Mame’?”
He then returned to the conversation he had commenced with M. Lerond
in the park, and, drawing him aside to one of the corners of the huge
room, he concluded:
“For, when all’s said and done, the Army is all that is left us. All
that formerly made up the glory and strength of France has vanished,
leaving us the Army alone. The Republican Parliament has overthrown the
Government, compromised the magistracy, and corrupted public life. The
Army alone rears its head above the ruins. That is why I insist that to
meddle with it is nothing short of sacrilege.”
He stopped. He was never in the habit of grappling with any question,
and usually contented himself with generalities. The nobility of his
sentiments was contested by none.
Madame de Courtrai, who until then had been lost in reflection as to
the best way of preparing cooling draughts, suddenly looked up, turning
her old gamekeeper’s face to the Duke, and remarked:
“I do trust you have written to the proprietors of that paper which
is in league with the enemies of France and the Army, saying that you
intend to discontinue it. My husband sent back the number containing
that article. You know the one I mean--that disgraceful article.”
“My nephew writes to me,” replied the Duke, “that a notice has been
posted up at his club, insisting that the subscription to it shall be
given up, and I hear that signatures are coming in thick and fast.
Nearly all the members fall in with the suggestion, reserving the right
to buy any single number.”
“The Army is above all attack,” said M. Lerond.
General Cartier de Chalmot at length broke the silence, in which, until
then, he had been wrapped:
“I like to hear you say that. And if, like myself, you had spent the
greater part of your life among soldiers, you would be agreeably
surprised to note the qualities of endurance, good discipline, and good
temper, which make of the French trooper a first-class implement of
war. I never tire of repeating it: such units are equal to any task.
With the authority of an officer whose life’s career is drawing to a
close, I maintain that anyone who takes the trouble to inquire into
the spirit which animates the French Army will find it worthy of the
highest praise. In the same way, it is a pleasure to me to testify to
the persevering effort of several officers of high standing and great
capacity who have devoted much time and thought to the organization
of the Army, and I declare that their efforts have been crowned with
brilliant success.”
In a lower and more serious voice he added:
“All that now remains for me to say is, that as far as the men are
concerned, quality is to be preferred to quantity, and what should
be aimed at is the formation of crack corps. I feel certain that no
capable officer would contradict such an assertion. My last military
will and testament is contained in this formula: ‘Quantity is
nothing, quality is everything.’ I might add that unity of command is
indispensable to an army, and that a great body of men must obey one
unique, sovereign, and immutable will, and one only.”
He ceased speaking, his pale eyes full of tears. Confused, inexplicable
feelings filled the soul of the honest, simple-minded old man, who in
former days had been the most dashing captain of the Imperial Guard.
His health was failing, his strength exhausted, and he felt himself
lost amongst the officers of the modern school, whom he could not
understand.
Madame de Courtrai, who did not care for theories, turned her fierce,
masculine old face towards the General:
“Well, General, as, thank God, the Army is respected by every one, as
you say it is the only force that keeps us together, why should it not
also rule us? Why not send a colonel with his regiment to the Palais
Bourbon and the Élysée----?”
She stopped short, as she saw the clouded brow of the General.
The Duke beckoned to M. Lerond.
“You have never seen the library, have you, M. Lerond? I will show
it to you. You are fond of old books, and I am sure you will be
interested.”
Traversing a long, bare gallery, the ceiling of which was covered with
clumsy painting, depicting Louis XIII and Apollo destroying the enemies
of the kingdom, as represented by Furies and Hydras, they arrived at
a door through which the Duke ushered the counsel for the defence
of the religious communities into the room where, in 1605, Duc Guy,
Grand-Marshal of France and governor of the province, had founded the
library for the solace of his declining years and fortunes.
It was a square room, occupying the whole of the ground floor of the
west wing, lighted on the north, west, and south, by three uncurtained
windows, offering three charming and magnificent pictures to the eye.
Stretching away to the south was the lawn, in the centre of which was a
marble vase, with a pair of ring-doves perching upon it. The trees of
the park were visible, bared by the winter of their leaves, and in the
purple depths of the dark walk glimmered the white statues of the pool
of Galatea. To the west was a stretch of flat country, a wide expanse
of sky, and the setting sun, which, like a mythological egg of light
and of gold, had broken and spread its glory over the clouds. To the
north were the ploughed red earth of the hills, the slate roofs and
distant smoke of Brécé, and the delicate pointed steeple of the little
church standing out in the cold, clear light.
A Louis XIV table, two chairs, and a seventeenth-century globe with a
wind-rose relating to the unexplored regions of the Pacific comprised
the only furniture of this severe-looking room, the walls of which
were lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases, enclosed by wire
gratings. Even upon the red marble mantelpiece the grey-painted shelves
encroached, and through the mesh of gilded wire peeped the richly
decorated backs of ancient volumes.
“The library was founded by the Marshal,” said M. de Brécé. “His
grandson, Duc Jean, added many treasures to it during the reign of
Louis XIV, and it was he who fitted it up as you see it to-day. It has
not been much altered since.”
“Have you a catalogue?” inquired M. Lerond.
The Duke said that he had not, that M. de Terremondre, who was a great
lover of valuable books, had warmly recommended him to have them
catalogued, but he had never yet found time to have it done.
He opened one of the cases, and M. Lerond drew out several volumes
in succession, octavo, quarto, and folio, bound in marbled, stippled
or tree-calf, parchment, and red and blue morocco, all bearing on
their covers the coat of arms with the three torches surmounted by
a ducal crown. M. Lerond was not a keen book-lover, but on opening
a beautifully written manuscript on Royal Tithes, presented to the
Marshal by Vauban, his astonishment and admiration knew no bounds.
The manuscript was further embellished with a frontispiece, besides
several vignettes and tail-pieces.
“Are these original drawings?” asked M. Lerond.
“Very probably,” replied M. de Brécé.
“They are signed,” went on M. Lerond, “and I think I can decipher the
name of Sebastian Leclerc.”
“Maybe,” answered M. de Brécé.
These priceless shelves contained, as M. Lerond remarked, books
by Tillemont on Roman and Church history, the statute book of the
province, and innumerable _Fœdera_ by old doctors at law; he
unearthed works on theology, on controversy, and on hagiology, long
genealogical histories, old editions of Greek and Latin classics,
and some of those enormous books, bigger than atlases, written on the
occasion of the marriage of a king or his entry into Paris, or to
celebrate his convalescence or his victories.
“This is the oldest part of the library,” said M. de Brécé, “the
Marshal’s collection. Here,” he added, opening two or three other
cases, “are the additions of Duc Jean.”
“Louis XVI’s minister, surnamed the ‘Good Duke’?” asked M. Lerond.
“Just so,” replied M. de Brécé.
Duc Jean’s collection took up all that side of the wall containing
the mantelpiece and also the side looking out upon the little town.
M. Lerond read out the titles stamped in gold between two bands,
that decorated the backs of the volumes: _Encyclopédie méthodique_;
_Œuvres de Montesquieu_; _Œvres de Voltaire_; _Œuvres de Rousseau,
de l’abbé Mably, de Condillac_; and _Histoire des Établissements
Européens dans les Indes_, by Raynal. He then glanced through the
lesser poets and romancers with the vignettes of Grécourt, Dorat,
and Saint-Lambert; the Boccaccio illustrated by Marillier, and
the edition of La Fontaine, published by the “Fermiers Généraux.”
“The pictures are rather free,” remarked the Duke. “I have been
compelled to destroy certain works of the same period, the
illustrations of which were really licentious.”
M. Lerond, however, discovered, side by side with these frivolous
books, a lengthy series of political and philosophical works, essays
on slavery, printed accounts of the American War of Independence. He
opened _Vœux d’un solitaire_, and saw that the margins were covered
with notes in Duc Jean’s handwriting. He read aloud:
“The author is right; man is naturally good, and the mistaken social
laws alone are responsible for his evil deeds.”
“That,” he added, “is what your great-great-grandfather wrote in 1790.”
“How very curious!” remarked the Duke, replacing the book upon its
shelf. Then, opening the cases upon the north side of the room, he said:
“These are the books collected by my grandfather, who was page to
Charles X.”
Here M. Lerond discovered, bound in sombre sheepskin, tan calf and
black shagreen, the works of Chateaubriand, a series of “Mémoires”
on the Revolution, the Histories of Anquetil, Guizot, and Augustin
Thierry; La Harpe’s _Cours de littérature_, Marchangy’s _Gaule
poétique_, and the _Discours_ of Lainé.
Close to this literature dealing with the Restoration, and the
Government of July, was a shelf on which lay two or three tattered
papers on Pope Pius IX and temporal power, a few dilapidated novels, a
pamphlet in praise of Joan of Arc, which had been read by Monseigneur
Charlot in the church of Saint-Exupère on the 8th of June, 1890, and
a few religious books written for ladies of high degree. This was the
contribution of the late Duke, member of the National Assembly in 1871,
and of the present Duc de Brécé, to the library created by the marshal
in 1605.
“I must lock up these books,” said M. de Brécé. “I cannot be too
careful, for my sons are growing up, and at any moment may be seized
with the desire to come and examine the library for themselves. There
are books among these which should never fall into the hands of any
young man, nor of any self-respecting woman, no matter what her age may
be.”
And so, in his honest zeal for doing good, and in the happy conviction
that he was imprisoning lust, doubt, impiety, and evil thoughts, he
turned his key upon them; and this sentiment, which, when analysed, had
its share of simple complacency and the secret jealousy of an ignorant
man, was not without its beauty and purity also.
Having thrust the bunch of keys into his pocket again, the Duke turned
a satisfied countenance to M. Lerond.
“Overhead,” he said, “is the King’s room. The old inventories give this
name to all the upper story. The room properly so-called, however,
contains the bed in which Louis XIII slept, and it is still hung with
the same silk embroidery. It is well worth a visit.”
M. Lerond was so tired that he could hardly stand. His legs, accustomed
all the year round to be tucked away under a desk, had had hard work
to carry him through the walk on the slippery paths of the park, the
tramp round the stables, and the stroll along the woods to the church;
they felt limp and weak, and his feet were hot and painful, for the
poor man, anxious to do the right thing, had, unfortunately, put on
patent-leather boots. Casting an uneasy glance at the ceiling, he
stammered:
“It grows late. Would it not be better to join the ladies in the
drawing-room?”
M. de Brécé was only adamant with regard to the visit to the stables;
as far as the remainder of his property was concerned he was reasonable
enough.
“Yes, the light is going,” he said. “We will see the rest another time.
To the right, M. Lerond; to the right, please.”
“What walls!” cried the ex-deputy, as he reached the doorway. “What
tremendously thick walls!”
His thin face, the calm and cold expression of which had not altered
one whit at the sight of the hunting trophies in the hall, the
historic paintings in the drawing-room, the rich tapestries, the
magnificent ceiling of the gallery, and the beautiful books with their
tooled morocco bindings, now grew animated, interested, and full of
admiration. He had at last discovered something to stir and amaze
him, something which afforded him both food for thought and mental
satisfaction--a wall! His legal mind, struck down in its flower at the
time of the new regulations, and his heart, too soon bereaved of the
joy of administering punishment, rejoiced at the sight of a wall, a
deaf, dumb, sombre thing, which recalled to his eager mind thoughts of
prison cells, of sentences and public prosecutions, of codes, laws,
justice, and morals--a wall!
“Yes,” replied the Duke, “the wall at this particular spot between the
gallery and the next wing is tremendously thick. It is the outer wall
of the old castle, built in 1405.”
M. Lerond gazed lingeringly at the wall, measured it with his eyes,
felt it with his little, crooked, yellow hands, studied, worshipped,
loved, and possessed it.
“Mesdames,” he said to the ladies on his return to the drawing-room,
“the Duke has very kindly shown me his wonderful library. On my way
back I noticed the remarkable wall that separates the gallery from the
wing. I don’t think there is anything to equal it even at Chambord.”
But neither the Brécé ladies nor Madame de Courtrai was listening;
their united attention was given to another matter.
“Jean,” cried the Duchess to her husband, “Jean, look at this!” And she
pointed to a red leather case lying on the table near the lamp which a
servant had just brought in. The case was round in shape, topped with a
kind of knob like a thimble, and divided at the base in the shape of a
clover leaf. A visiting card lay beside it. All around the table were
heaps of tissue paper, that made one think of little white dogs tied up
with pale blue ribbon.
“Do look, Jean!”
The Abbé Guitrel, who was standing near the table, opened the case with
reverent hands, and displayed a golden ciborium.
“Who sent it?” asked M. de Brécé.
“Look at the card. I am horribly worried--I don’t know what to do.”
M. de Brécé put on his glasses, picked up the card, and read aloud:
BARONNE JULES DE BONMONT.
For Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles.
He replaced the card upon the table, took off his glasses and murmured:
“How very annoying!”
“A ciborium, a beautiful ciborium,” said the Abbé.
“When I used to sing in the choir as a boy,” said the General, “I
always heard the Fathers call it a custodial.”
“Yes, you can call it either a custodial or a ciborium,” replied the
Abbé. “These are the names given to the receptacles which hold the
reserved Eucharist. But the custodial is formed like a cylinder and has
a conical cover.”
With frowning brow M. de Brécé stood wrapped in thought; then with a
deep sigh he said:
“Why should Madame de Bonmont, who is a Jewess, give a ciborium to
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles? Why have these people a mania for
forcing themselves into our churches?”
The Abbé Guitrel, with his fingers thrust into the sleeves of his coat,
moistened his lips and said gently:
“Allow me to point out, Monsieur, that Madame Jules de Bonmont is a
Catholic.”
“Nonsense!” cried the Duke. “She is an Austrian Jewess, and her maiden
name was Wallstein. The real name of her late husband, the Baron de
Bonmont, was Gutenberg.”
“Allow me, Monsieur,” said the Abbé. “I do not deny that the Baronne
de Bonmont is of Jewish descent. What I mean is that she has been
converted and baptized, and is therefore a Christian. She is a good
Christian, I might add, and gives largely to our charities, in fact,
she is an example to----”
“I am acquainted with your ideas,” interrupted the Duke, “and I respect
them as I respect your cloth. But to me a converted Jew remains a Jew;
I cannot make any distinction between the two.”
“Neither can I,” said Madame de Brécé.
“To a certain extent your feelings are legitimate, Madame la Duchesse,”
replied the Abbé. “But you cannot be unaware of the teaching of the
Church, that the curse pronounced against the Jews was inspired by
their crime, and not their race, and that therefore the attendant
results cannot affect them if----”
“It _is_ heavy,” said the Duke, lifting the ciborium from its case, and
holding it out.
“I am most annoyed,” said the Duchess.
“It is _very_ heavy!” repeated the Duke.
“And, what is more,” added the Abbé, “it is a beautiful piece of work,
and possesses the refined characteristics which are, so to speak,
the seal and stamp of the work of Rondonneau the younger. None but
the Archbishop’s goldsmith could have displayed such judgment in the
selection of a model from traditional Christian art, or have reproduced
the shape and decoration with such skill and fidelity. This ciborium
is a work of the highest merit, and is in the style of the thirteenth
century.”
“The bowl and cover are in solid gold,” said M. de Brécé.
“According to liturgical regulations the bowl of the ciborium must be
of gold, or, at any rate, of silver, gilded inside,” said the Abbé.
M. de Brécé, who was holding it upside down, remarked:
“The foot is hollow.”
“That’s a good thing!” cried the Duchess.
The Abbé Guitrel looked lovingly at the work of Rondonneau the younger.
“There is no doubt about it,” he said, “it is thirteenth century, and
a better period could not have been selected. The thirteenth century
is the golden age of this particular kind of work. At that epoch the
ciborium was made in the beautiful shape of a pomegranate, which you
recognize in this delicious example. The firm, strong foot is further
enriched with enamels and inset with precious stones.”
“Mercy upon us! precious stones!” cried the Duchess.
“Figures of angels and prophets are finely chased on the lozenge-shaped
panels, giving the most delightful effect to the whole.”
“That Bonmont was a rogue,” said Madame de Courtrai suddenly. “He was a
thief; and his widow has not yet made restitution.”
“You see that she is beginning to do so, however,” said the Duke,
pointing to the shining ciborium.
“What shall we do?” asked the Duchess.
“We cannot return her gift,” said the Duke.
“Why not?” asked his mother.
“Well, mother, because it is impossible.”
“Then we’ve got to keep it?” asked the Duchess.
“Well--yes, I suppose so.”
“And thank her?”
“What else can we do?”
“Don’t you agree with me, General?”
“It would have been fitter,” said the General, “if this lady, who is a
stranger to you, had refrained from making you a present. But there is
no reason to respond to her civility with an insult.”
Taking the ciborium in his venerable hands, the Abbé Guitrel said:
“Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles will, I feel sure, look with kindness
upon this gift, presented by a pious soul to the tabernacle of her
altar.”
“But, hang it all,” put in the Duke, “I am
Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles in this case. If Madame de Bonmont and
young Bonmont want to be invited to my house--and they certainly will
want to--I shall be obliged to receive them now.”