M. l’Abbé, candidate for the episcopacy, was ushered into the study of
the Nuncio, Monseigneur Cima, whose appearance at first sight came as a
surprise, for his pale, large-featured countenance, on which the years
had left traces of fatigue, showed no signs of age. At forty, he looked
rather like a sickly youth, and when he cast down his eyes his face
was as the face of a dead man. He signed to the visitor to be seated,
and, assuming his usual attitude, leaned back in his easy chair, and
prepared to listen to him. With his right elbow in his left hand, and
his head resting in the hollow of his right hand, he had a grace that
struck one as vaguely funereal, and called to mind certain figures on
ancient bas-reliefs. When in repose his face was veiled in melancholy,
but as soon as he smiled it radiated humour. The gaze of his beautiful
dark eyes gave one a feeling of discomfort; at Naples he was said to
possess the evil eye; in France he passed for a clever politician.
M. l’Abbé Guitrel thought it advisable to make only a passing allusion
to the object of his visit.
Mother Church in her wisdom might dispose of him as she judged good.
All his feelings of love for her were blended in an entire obedience to
her will!
“Monseigneur,” he added, “I am a priest, in other words a soldier, and
I aspire to the glory of obedience!”
Slowly bending his head, as a sign of approbation, Monseigneur Cima
asked the Abbé if he had been in any way acquainted with M. Duclou, the
late Bishop of Tourcoing.
“I knew him when he was Curé at Orleans, Monseigneur.”
“Orleans? A pleasant town, I have relations there, distant cousins of
mine. M. Duclou was very old when he died. Do you know what caused his
death?”
“Stone, Monseigneur.”
“The cause of the death of many old men, although science has
discovered many things to mitigate this terrible malady.”
“Yes, indeed, Monseigneur!”
“I used to know M. Duclou at Rome; he often had a rubber of whist with
me. Have you ever been to Rome, M. Guitrel?”
“Monseigneur, that is a joy so far denied me, but I have long
sojourned there in thought. My spirit has outstripped my body in its
journey to the Vatican.”
“Yes, yes; the Pope would be very pleased to see you. He likes France
very much. The best time for a visit to Rome is during the spring, for
in summer malaria is rife in the countryside, and in some parts of the
city even.”
“I do not fear malaria.”
“Of course not. Besides, provided one takes certain precautions, one
can always ward off fevers; you must never go out at night without your
cloak, and foreigners especially should never go out in open vehicles
after the sun has set.”
“I have heard, Monseigneur, that the Coliseum by moonlight is a truly
wonderful sight.”
“The air is treacherous in that district, and the gardens of the Villa
Borghese are also to be avoided for the same reason.”
“Really, Monseigneur?”
“Yes, yes! I, who am Roman-born, cannot endure the climate of Rome. I
prefer to go to Brussels. I was there for a year some time ago, and can
think of no town that I like better. I have relations there. Tourcoing,
is that a large town?”
“About 40,000 inhabitants, I believe, Monseigneur. It is a
manufacturing town.”
“I know! I know! M. Duclou used to tell me in Rome that he could only
find one fault with his flock: they drank beer. He used to say that if
they would only drink the light wines of Orleans they would be the most
perfect Christians in the world, but hops made them melancholy.”
“M. Duclou was a very witty man.”
“He disliked beer, and once I surprised him very much by telling him
that it was quite popular in Italy nowadays. There are very prosperous
German beer-houses in Florence, Rome, Naples, and most of the other
towns. Do you like beer, M. Guitrel?”
“I do not dislike it, Monseigneur.”
The Nuncio gave his ring to the priest, who kissed it and took a
respectful leave.
The Nuncio rang the bell.
“Show M. Lantaigne in.”
Having kissed the ring, the director of the Grand Séminaire was invited
to sit down and state his business.
He said:
“Monseigneur, I have sacrificed to the Pope and to necessity all the
ties that bound me to the Royal House of France; I have trampled down
the dearest hopes of my heart, which was only what I owed to the Father
of the Faithful and the unity of the Church. If His Holiness raises me
to the see of Tourcoing, I will rule it in his interest and in the
interest of France. A bishop is a ruling power, and I can answer for my
steadfastness and devotion.”
Slowly bending his head as a sign of approbation, Monseigneur Cima
asked Abbé Lantaigne whether he had been in any way acquainted with M.
Duclou, the late Bishop of Tourcoing.
“I only knew him slightly,” replied M. Lantaigne, “and long before
his elevation to the bishopric. I remember having lent him some of my
sermons when I had more of them than I knew what to do with.”
“He was not young when we lost him. Do you know what caused his death?”
“I do not know.”
“I knew M. Duclou in Rome; he often used to play a rubber of whist with
me. Have you ever been to Rome, M. Lantaigne?”
“Never, Monseigneur.”
“You should go. The Pope would be very pleased to see you; he likes
France very much. But you must be careful when you go; the climate of
Rome is bad for foreigners. During the summer malaria is rife in the
countryside, and even in some parts of the city. The best season to
visit Rome is the spring. I was born in Rome, of Roman parents, and I
much prefer Paris or Brussels. Brussels is a very pleasant town. I have
relations there. Tell me, Tourcoing, is it a very large town?”
“It is one of the oldest sees of Northern France, Monseigneur, and is
notorious for its long line of saintly bishops, from the blessed St.
Loup to Monseigneur de la Thrumellière, the immediate predecessor of M.
Duclou.”
“Tell me, what are the people of Tourcoing like?”
“They are good Church people, Monseigneur, and tend more to the Belgian
form of Catholicism than to the French.”
“Yes, yes, I know. M. Duclou, the late lamented Bishop of Tourcoing,
told me one day in Rome that he had only one fault to find with his
flock: they drank beer. He used to say that if they would only drink
the light wines of Orleans, they would be the most perfect Christians
in the world, but the juice of the hop filled them with its melancholy
and bitterness.”
“Monseigneur, allow me to say one thing: Monseigneur Duclou was both
weak and brainless. He never brought out the energetic qualities of
the sturdy northerners under his care. He was not a bad man, but his
dislike of evil was only moderate. The Catholic town of Tourcoing must
shine out on the whole of the Catholic world. Should His Holiness
judge me worthy to fill the seat of the blessed St. Loup, I swear in
ten years’ time to have won all hearts by the sacred energy of good
works; to have stolen back all the souls gone over to the enemy and
to re-establish around me the oneness of belief. In the depths of her
innermost soul, France is Christian, and only needs energetic leaders.
The Church is dying from sheer inanition.”
Monseigneur Cima rose from his chair, and held out to Abbé Lantaigne
his golden ring, saying:
“You must go to Rome, M. l’Abbé, you must go to Rome!”