MONSEIGNEUR.
Great conflict--Returning to Paris--Count Albert married--Marriages
declined--Love buried in the grave of Arouya--Frivolities--Napoleon
at the Tuileries--Illness--Doctors' errors--Days of horror--Vow
registered--Between life and death--Victory--Home again--Abbe's
objections--Resolve strengthened--Death of the Abbe--Taking
vows--Life of energy and action--Rapid sketch--Sympathies--All
ordained--"Monseigneur"--"Mon ami"--Cry of the watchmen--Candles
wax dim and blue--Wandering in dreams--False prophet--H. C. rises
with the lark--Beauty of Gerona--Pathetic scene--Colonel
administers consolation--Widow's heart sings for joy--In the
cloisters again--Good-bye--In the cathedral--Anselmo--Sunshine over
all--Miguel--On the ruined citadel--Anselmo's signal--A glory
departs.
"I have told you of the great romance of my life," he presently
continued. "Now let me tell you of its great conflict.
"After many wanderings I returned to Paris. Here the great world opened
wide its doors to me. In a short time I was _l'enfant de la maison_
amongst all people worth knowing. Count Albert had married one of the
most charming women in the great world. You can picture my welcome. Few
days passed but I spent some portion of my time with them. I was
naturally sought after, my wealth and position rendering that
inevitable. Fathers proposed marriage for their daughters after the
French fashion, offering the bribe of large dowries. But they knew not
my secret. All my love was buried in a quiet Algerian grave, within
sight of the ever-sounding sea. I had never loved before; I should never
love again. I shuddered at the idea of a mere _mariage de convenance_.
Love and love only could make the chains of matrimony bearable. Who
could love again after such a love, such a marriage as mine?
"I soon felt the life of Paris feverish, enervating. There was no rest,
or repose, or freedom about it. A wild series of frivolities succeeded
each other: court ceremonies--Napoleon III. reigned at the
Tuileries--balls, receptions, the life of the clubs. I hated wine, yet
indulged freely in it to help me through the days. I had not been made
for this kind of life; all the better parts of my nature were being
stifled. Still I went on from week to week, partly because I could not
tear myself away from Albert and his charming wife.
"At last I fell ill of a nervous malady which prostrated my strength.
The doctors ordered brandy in large doses. They should rather have
forbidden it. The day came when I saw that brandy was my master. I could
not live without it. Nothing could exceed my horror when I made the
discovery. Then the moral struggle began, and that my nature was strong
only made the conflict more severe. But the evil was more physical than
mental or moral and so far beyond my control.
"At length, almost in despair, sick of this frivolous, aimless life, I
vowed to devote my days to the service of Heaven if I might be permitted
to conquer.
"Again I fell ill, but this time of a malady for which all stimulant was
forbidden. For weeks I kept my bed, part of the time hovering between
life and death. Heaven was merciful. My vow had been heard, my prayer
answered. When I recovered, the victory had been gained for me. I hated
the very sight of all stimulant. From that hour nothing stronger than
tea or coffee has passed my lips.
"I left Paris and returned to my home in Provence. What delight, what
repose, what charm I found there. Paradise had once more opened its
gates. There, with the Abbe, I spent a whole year in calm and quiet
retreat. Health and vigour of mind, strength of body, returned to me.
"But I did not forget my vow. The Abbe treated me to many an argument
and disquisition upon the subject. He showed me the life of an
ecclesiastic in all its lights and shadows; the sacrifice of domestic
happiness it entailed; the constant self-denials if I would do my duty
in the spirit as well as letter. He pointed out how by nature and
position I was eminently fitted to take my part in the world; to marry;
become the ruler of a little kingdom, as it were; the father of sons and
daughters. He was growing old, he declared, and certainly in the last
year had greatly changed. An expression on his face told me he was not
far from heaven. He felt his own end approaching.
"All this only strengthened my resolve. If anything could have made me
more in favour of a religious life, it was the quiet ecstasy with which
he contemplated passing to celestial regions. Nothing could be more
saintly and beatific than his last days. He was in perfect happiness,
and frequently said so. I was permitted to be with him when his eyes
looked their last upon the world. I was the last object they rested on;
my name was on his lips as his soul winged its flight to heaven. For the
fourth time the hand of affliction was laid upon me. My last link with
the world was severed. I stood alone.
"In due time I took upon myself the vows of the Church. Never for a
moment had I contemplated the cloister. Mine must be a life of energy
and activity. Whether it be a weakness or not, I have ever loved to
command; to rule mankind; to have the ordering of things. There I feel
in my element. I have a capacity for organisation which will not lie
dormant. It has been my lot to have it more or less fully exercised.
With all humility, and giving the sole glory to Heaven, I may say that I
have succeeded in every work or mission I ever undertook; advanced every
cause in which I have been concerned. The great moral, the great secret
of my life, is this: I have first of all been convinced of the soundness
of my intentions; I have held decided views; I have never entered upon a
single act of importance without first placing it under the guidance of
Heaven, as Hezekiah went up into the Temple and spread the letter before
the Lord. And then I have gone forward, nothing doubting. Paul may plant
and Apollos may water in vain, if they trust to their own strength. That
has been my rule and conviction through life. I have constantly
endeavoured to have no will of my own; no personal ends and aims and
prejudices; but to obey the great Master, whose I am and Whom I serve."
Here Delormais rapidly sketched his life in the Church. He described
every office he had held in succession; the difficulties he had
contended with; the evils he had suppressed; the reforms he had made;
the manner in which he had once fought with and at length convinced the
Consistory of Rome. Through all he spoke with the utmost humility,
recognising himself an agent, not a principal to whom any credit was
due.
Over this portion of his life we draw a discreet veil. It was disclosed
under secrecy. Partly to prevent identification; partly because other
names were inevitably introduced, some of which were as household words
in the world of the French Church.
The time had passed unconsciously. There was a singular charm and
attraction about Delormais. His fine presence and high breeding, his
animated way of talking and graphic powers of description, all carried
you beyond yourself. Everything was forgotten but the man before you.
For the moment you were lost in the scenes he portrayed so vividly.
Underlying all, running through all like a fine silken warp, his
sympathetic nature was evident. Strong, decided, commanding, loving to
rule, he was yet singularly lovable. When was this ever otherwise where
sympathy was the keynote of the disposition? He was a man to come to for
advice and consolation. Broad-minded above all the small views and
judgments of human nature, if he chastised with the one hand, he took
care to heal with the other. No one need dread his condemnation. We had
been so recently under the influence of both men it was impossible to
help contrasting this strong, admirable nature with the calm, retiring,
almost celestial beauty of Anselmo: each perfect in its way. We
mentioned him to Delormais as a type.
"Ay, I know him well," he replied: "have known him always. The Canon who
was his protector and left him a portion of his wealth, was one of my
few intimate friends. A purer spirit than Anselmo's never breathed. He
might be advanced to high places in the Church, but is better and
happier where he is. In all my wide experiences I have never met his
equal. Of course I know his story, and his love for Rosalie--hers for
him: an idyll almost too perfect for earth. I know her well also, and
all her saintliness. Such love and faith are rare: a consistency worth
all the sermons that ever were preached. How different was my fevered
love from theirs; my rash, unreflecting impulse in that Algerian
paradise. And yet, Heaven be praised, nothing but good came of it. All
is ordained; all is for the best if only our heart's desire is to do
well. All comes right in the end. I have never known it otherwise. If
ever I feel in the slightest degree discouraged, if ever my faith in
human nature is unduly tried, I immediately think of these two saintly
people, and courage revives."
Once more he paused, and seemed lost in thought. Whether it was given to
Anselmo and Rosalie, or whether to retrospection, we could not tell. The
clock ticked its faint warning of the passing of time. All else was
profound silence. But he soon roused himself to the present, and again
turned to us with an expression in which humour was mixed with
kindliness.
"And now," said Delormais, with that peculiar smile that had puzzled us
at the beginning of our interview, "I am going to surprise you. Life is
full of the strangest coincidences and combinations, which would be
laughed to scorn in fiction. It is the unexpected which happens. You
remarked some time ago that my palace would be known as a shining light,
if I ever were made a bishop. I shall never be made a bishop," he
laughed, "and for this reason."
Here he quietly took an official-looking document out of a capacious
side pocket, and placed it in our hands. It was an intimation of his
elevation to the See of X.---- a place we knew by heart, and loved.
"Can this be true?" we asked in perplexity.
"It is indeed," laughed Delormais. "So you see I cannot be made a
bishop, for I am one already; though not duly enthroned. You will have
to be present at that ceremony. I am not surprised. I knew it was
coming, though I could not tell the exact day and hour. It reached me
only this evening. And you are the first to whom I have told it."
"Then," we replied, rising and making him a profound bow, "let us be the
first to greet you by your title, _Monseigneur_. The first to wish you
all honour and success in that high office Heaven has destined you to
fill."
"Nay," he returned; "Monseigneur to others it may be; but to you it
shall be ever _mon ami_. For with your permission I intend our
acquaintance to ripen into friendship. You shall come and visit the old
Bishop in his palace. We will make it a shining light together. The
oftener you come, the longer you stay, the more welcome you will be. You
know that X. is surrounded by antiquities, endless monuments of
interest. Amidst these attractions you will feel at home. Your visits
will not be a mere sacrifice to friendship."
"You are sketching a delightful picture. Will it ever be realised?"
"That only depends upon yourself," laughed Delormais. "The Bishop has
not to be made, nor the palace to be built; the guest-chamber awaits you
with the blue skies and balmy airs of spring. Of all appointments it is
the one I would have chosen. A life of activity, of responsibility and
usefulness; a wide sphere of action; opportunities for doing much good
in public, still more in private. The latter brings the greater
blessing."
"You are a wonderful man," we could not help exclaiming. "Your life
ought to be written. We should love to make it known to the world."
"You shall become my biographer," laughed Delormais, "if you will
undertake it in French. Do what you will with what I have told you
to-night. Only keep to yourself all my ecclesiastical history. That is
sacred and private, at any rate as long as I am living. For the rest,
change names and dates only sufficiently to prevent recognition. Not
that it would matter. My life is my own, as I have said. And not that I
have anything to conceal. My faults, follies and indiscretions have been
those of impulse; of the head, not of the heart, I would fain believe. I
cannot remember the time when I did not at least wish to do well. Of
evil men and deliberate sin I have ever had a wholesome horror. But all
and everything by God's grace, not of my own strength."
At that moment we were startled by a cry in the street: the well-known
call of El sereno.
"Another watchman," cried Delormais. "What is the hour?"
We had not thought of time. A few months earlier and the sun would long
have been up. Want of space prevents our giving more than a mere outline
of Delormais' life. He filled in an infinite number of details
impossible to be recorded here. They would swell to a volume, but a
volume of singular interest. He spoke rapidly and with few pauses. Our
watches marked the hour of five. It was that period of the night when
darkness is greatest before dawn. The watchman's voice cried the hour
and the starry night for the last time.
"For your own sake I must break up the assembly," laughed Delormais.
"Two hours' sleep will refresh us both. Presently we shall meet again.
See! our candles wax dim and blue--or is it fancy? This is a ghostly
house, you know. My great-grandmother was Spanish, and for all I can
tell some of its ancestors and mine may have met here in times long past
and played out their comedies and tragedies together. As we are playing
ours."
We parted. Sleep came to us, but scarcely unconsciousness. In our dreams
we lived over again all the scenes Delormais had so graphically
described, but more highly-coloured, full of impossible adventures. We
wandered through endless groves of paradise peopled with myriads of
Arouyas. Our only difficulty was to choose the fairest. Life was one
long poem; time had passed into eternity. From such celestial regions we
were awakened at eight o'clock by the entrance of our host with morning
coffee and steaming rolls, accompanied by Jose bearing hot water. The
latter had constituted himself our _criado_ or _valet de chambre_.
"Senor," he said, "it is a cloudless morning. Our astronomer has proved
a false prophet. My heart bleeds for him. I fear his glory has departed.
Heaven send he does not commit suicide. Is it you, senor, who have
influenced the stars against him?"
"Monsieur," said our host, putting down the tray, "your friend the poet
rose with the lark--figuratively speaking, for who knows what time the
lark rises in November? Taking his coffee, he went out with his umbrella
shouldered a la militaire. For a poet, monsieur, your friend can put on
a very defiant air, as if, like Don Quixote, he had a mind to fight with
windmills. He told me he was inflated with inspiration. He was going to
contemplate the Pyrenees from the Citadel, and to write a sonnet to the
eyebrows of a young lady he saw last night at the opera. I confess I
should have thought the eyes a finer theme. Joseph tells me it was the
Senorita Costello. She is considered the great beauty of Gerona; and
even in Madrid, I am told, created a profound sensation. No wonder the
susceptible monsieur's heart beat fast when he beheld her. Now, senor,
we leave you to enjoy your coffee and perform your toilet. His
reverence, Pere Delormais, sends you his greeting and hopes you have
slept. I have just taken his coffee also. Contrary to his usual custom,
though wide awake he was still reposing. Ah! what a great character we
have there!"
Upon which the attentive deputation retired and we were left in peace.
It was indeed glorious to see the blue unclouded sky, to find the cold
winds departed, summer reigning once more. How changed the aspect of
Gerona. How all the wonderful colouring came out, the effects of light
and shadow, under the sunshine. H. C. arrived just as we left the hotel,
and together we went to the bridge where we had stood not many hours ago
under the stars.
It almost seemed as though we had gone through years of experience since
then. This morning everything was bright and animated. The river now
flashed and sparkled and reflected brilliant, broken outlines. The old
houses looked older than ever in this youthful atmosphere, but seemed
warmed into life. They now appeared quite habitable, almost cheerful.
The towers standing above and beyond them were pencilled against the
blue sky. The very air seemed full of sun-flashes. In the boulevard the
trees in the sunshine made wonderful play of light and shade upon the
white houses. The arcades lost their gloom. Every one seemed to rejoice
and expand. No people are so responsive to atmosphere as the Spanish.
Warmth and sunshine are more necessary to them than food and sleep. They
are hot-house plants.
Towards ten o'clock we made our way up the street of steps to the
barracks. The scene was much the same as yesterday; conscription was not
yet over. We were evidently expected, and a sentry at once conducted us
to the colonel's office.
"I knew you would come," he cried, with quite an English handshake.
"Your interests are not of the butterfly nature, passing with the
moment. And see; here is our disconsolate widow. Now you have come, we
will talk to her."
We easily recognised the forlorn mother of yesterday's little drama. She
was quietly seated in a chair, her mantilla drawn closely about her, a
pathetic image of grief.
"Oh, senor Colonel, it is useless," she said. "Hope is dead and my heart
broken. Heaven has seen fitting to afflict me at all points. I have lost
my husband, my position; I am poor and in misery; my eldest son turns
out a disgrace; my remaining consolation is torn from me by the cruel
conscription. Nothing is left for me but to die."
"This is quite wrong," returned the colonel, pretending a severity he
did not feel. "Heaven is merciful. Brighter days will dawn for you if
you are patient. You will see that conscription is a blessing, not a
curse. It will make a man of your boy. Discipline is good for all. It is
just what he needed. He will return to you strong and vigorous; able and
willing to make a home for you. I promise to make him my special charge.
He shall be always about me. I will give him all the favour possible,
and will keep a constant eye upon him. Heaven permitting, he shall
return to you, not spoilt or lowered, but mentally and physically
improved. In the meantime--I have been making enquiries--I have found
you a position where you can honourably earn your living; where you will
be comfortable and respected; and if you will only look at the best side
of things, happy also. What do you say to it?"
Here he described the nature of the proposed occupation. The poor lady
burst into tears.
"Heaven reproves me for my ingratitude by showering mercies upon me,"
she cried. "Hope once more kindles within me. This is the one thing for
which I am fitted. Ah, colonel! it is you who have brought back life and
hope to my despairing heart."
"Nay," he returned, "I am merely the humble instrument, as we all are,
carrying out the purposes of Heaven. But I exact one thing of you. Cease
to be sad: let hope and energy return; carry out your daily tasks
heartily; and make up your mind that life still has much in store for
you."
The change was already apparent. A drooping, grief-stricken woman had
entered the office; one with hope and energy and patient waiting revived
left it.
[Illustration: SAN FILIU, FROM WITHOUT THE WALLS: GERONA.]
"Life is full of such sorrows," said the colonel. "Unfortunately we
cannot reach a millionth part of them. In this case help has been made
strangely easy. It is so seldom that the wish to aid and the power go
together. Let us now take a turn in your favourite cloisters."
Reposing under the blue skies, in the strong light and shade thrown by
the sunshine, they were even more beautiful and effective than
yesterday. In presence of their colonel, the men kept at a respectful
distance. They were all occupied in the same way; drawing water from the
well, mending clothes, running to and fro; some diligently doing
nothing. All seemed happy and contented.
"And they are so," said the colonel. "To a large number the change is
infinitely better in every way. They all find their own level. Those of
the better class discover each other, soon fraternise, and form
themselves into cliques. Youth is the age of friendship and enthusiasm.
Even these have their popes and go in for hero-worship. Life has its
charms for them. Yes," looking around, "no doubt these cloisters have a
beauty of their own. They influence me more to-day than ever before. I
think you would convert me in time," he laughed; "widen my interests and
enlarge my sympathies. You see, to me they are mere military barracks.
The men come first, and you will admit that they are not romantic. Plant
these cloisters in the midst of a desert, and no doubt I should be duly
impressed with their refined atmosphere."
We left them and stood at the head of the long flight of steps, admiring
the picturesque scene. To-day everything was radiant with light and
sunshine. The very crowd outside the Conscription-house looked more
hopeful. Even misfortune was less depressing under such blue skies. The
wonderful houses to our right, in their deep lights and shadows, looked
more rare and more artistic than ever. The ancient red roofs of the town
sloping downwards were deep and glowing. Many a gable stood out vividly,
many a dormer window and lattice pane seemed on fire as it reflected in
crimson flashes the rays of the ascending sun.
We reluctantly said good-bye to our colonel. These passing episodes,
possessing all the charm of the unexpected, are one of the delights of
travel. But they leave behind them a regret, for too often there can be
no renewal of the intimacy. Yet we realise that the world holds many
pleasant people, and that life is too short for all its possibilities.
"If you ever visit Gerona again," he said, with a final hand-shake,
"you will come and see me. If I am no longer quartered here, find out
where I am, send me a telegram, and follow quickly. May we meet again!"
Then we took our winding way up to the cathedral.
The fine square was in full sunshine. Deep lights and shadows lay upon
cathedral and palace. The house in which Alvarez once lived looked as
though human tragedy had never touched it. A golden glow lay on the grey
stone, restoring its lost youth. The ancient windows with their
wonderful ironwork, seemed kindled into life, ready to reveal a thousand
secrets of the dead-and-gone centuries. There was no gloom and mystery
to-day. The long, magnificent flight of steps were in full sunshine
also. Sunshine lay upon the town with its clustering roofs; flashed here
and there upon the surface of the winding river; gilded the snow-tops of
the far-off Pyrenees. The skies were blue and laughing; all nature was
radiant.
We passed through the west doorway into the cathedral.
Even here there was a change. The dim religious light might still be
felt; nothing could take that away. A sense of vastness and grandeur
still lay upon the splendid nave; a feeling of mystery still haunted
pillars and aisles and arches, and the deep recesses of the east end.
But to-day shafts of wonderful light flowed in, redeeming all from the
faintest suspicion of gloom. Rainbow-coloured beams from the upper
windows fell athwart the nave in rich prismatic streams. Beautiful as
the interior had been yesterday, it was yet more so this morning. These
shafts of light piercing the semi-darkness created a marvellous effect
of contrast, adding infinitely to the charm of the lovely building.
There was no mistaking the tall slender figure that approached us with
its quiet grace. It was Anselmo, his face lighted up with its rare
smile.
"We meet again," he said, in tones subdued to the sacred spot on which
we stood. "And yesterday I know that you met and conversed with Rosalie.
As we went together this morning to the bedside of a dear maiden whose
days are numbered, she told me of your encounter. I am glad. Now you
know us both and will keep us together in your memory. You must have
seen that she is more angel than woman walking the earth. I often
wonder how all her deep affection, purified and exalted, can be given to
one so unworthy. You smile! You think ours a strange history, we a
singular pair. I suppose it is so. Ours must be almost a unique
experience; and I believe that to few in this world is given the peace
and happiness we enjoy."
Talking, we passed on to the cloisters, lovelier than ever in their
brilliant light and shade. Once more we went through the north doorway
and gazed down upon San Pedro, the desecrated church, the ancient town
walls, and ruined citadel crowning the slopes. Sunshine everywhere; hope
upon all; the gloomy skies of yesterday forgotten; earth seemed many
degrees nearer heaven. We climbed down into the narrow streets and found
Miguel at his door waiting to give us a morning salutation.
"The photograph, senor. Is it a success?"
We told him that still lay in the uncertain future.
Again we found ourselves seated upon the ruined citadel. It was
difficult to realise all the horrors of that long past invasion under
the influence of these glorious skies, the gladness of this laughing
sunshine. The air was scented with wild thyme. The outlines of the
towers stood out wonderfully; the blue of heaven shone through the open
work of San Filiu's lovely steeple. All the sunshine glinted upon the
leaves of the trees in the hollow and traced patterns in the hanging
gardens.
"How beautiful it all is," said Anselmo. "On such days how thin the veil
separating the seen from the unseen. Our vision seems only just
withholden. What an awakening it will be to the higher life!"
With him, also, we had to part; a yet more reluctant farewell than that
lately gone through at the barracks. But we hoped to meet again. This
must not be our only visit to Gerona; and here Anselmo wished to live
and die. He had no ambition for a higher destiny, though even this, it
has lately been whispered to us, may one day come to him without change
of scene.
We parted as friends part, not mere acquaintances of a day. There is, we
have said, a magnetic power that bridges over time and conventionality.
As in dreams we sometimes live a lifetime in a moment, so in friendship
an hour may do the work of years. Again the clock struck twelve;
Anselmo's signal. History repeats itself. To-day he went alone, leaving
us standing amidst the ruins. We watched him as he climbed the rugged
heights of the cathedral, a tall, dark, graceful figure upon the
landscape. At the north doorway he turned, gazed steadily at us for a
few moments, raised his hands as though in benediction, and the next
moment was lost to sight.
A glory appeared to depart; the spot seemed emptier without him; there
was less brightness in the sunshine. We hastened to change the scene,
and in the lively streets of the fair, to disperse the sad current of
our thoughts. For our hours in Gerona the beautiful were numbered.