It had been a perfect September day. The tailor of Chaudiere had been
busier than usual, for winter was within hail, and careful habitants
were renewing their simple wardrobes. The Seigneur and the Cure arrived
together, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the Irish frieze
which the Seigneur kept in quantity at the Manor. The Seigneur was in
rare spirits. And not without reason; for this was Michaelmas eve, and
tomorrow would be Michaelmas day, and there was a promise to be redeemed
on Michaelmas day! He had high hopes of its redemption according to his
own wishes; for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in all
things all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with discretion was
his motto, and he often vowed to the Cure that there was no other motto
for the modern world.
The Cure’s visit to the tailor’s shop on this particular day had unusual
interest, for it concerned his dear ambition, the fondest aspiration of
his life: to bring the infidel tailor (they could not but call a man an
infidel whose soul was negative--the word agnostic had not then become
usual) from the chains of captivity into the freedom of the Church.
The Cure had ever clung to his fond hope; and it was due to his
patient confidence that there were several parishioners who now carried
Charley’s name before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, and to the
little calvaries by the road-side. The wife of Filion Lacasse never
failed to pray for him every day. The thousand dollars gained by the
saddler on the tailor’s advice had made her life happier ever since,
for Filion had become saving and prudent, and had even got her a “hired
girl.” There were at least a half-dozen other women, including Madame
Dauphin, who did the same.
That he might listen again to the good priest on his holy hobby,
inflamed with this passion of missionary zeal, the Seigneur, this
morning, had thrown doubt upon the ultimate success of the Cure’s
efforts.
“My dear Cure” said the Seigneur, “it is true, I think, what the tailor
suggested to my brother--on my soul, I wonder the Abbe gave in, for
a more obstinate fellow I never knew!--that a man is born with the
disbelieving maggot in his brain, or the butterfly of belief, or
whatever it may be called. It’s constitutional--may be criminal, but
constitutional. It seems to me you would stand more chance with the Jew,
Greek, or heretic, than our infidel. He thinks too much--for a tailor,
or for nine tailors, or for one man.”
He pulled his nose, as if he had said a very good thing indeed. They
were walking slowly towards the village during this conversation, and
the Cure, stopping short, brought his stick emphatically down in his
palm several times, as he said:
“Ah, you will not see! You will not understand. With God all things are
possible. Were it the devil himself in human form, I should work and
pray and hope, as my duty is, though he should still remain the devil
to the end. What am I? Nothing. But what the Church has done, the Church
may do. Think of Paul and Augustine, and Constantine!”
“They were classic barbarians to whom religion was but an emotion. This
man has a brain which must be satisfied.”
“I must count him as a soul to be saved through that very intelligence,
as well as through the goodness of his daily life, which, in its
charity, shames us all. He gives all he earns to the sick and needy. He
lives on fare as poor as the poorest of our people eat; he gives up his
hours of sleep to nurse the sick. Dauphin might not have lived but for
him. His heart is good, else these things were impossible. He could not
act them.”
“But that’s just it, Cure. Doesn’t he act them? Isn’t it a whim? What
more likely than that, tired of the flesh-pots of Egypt, he comes here
to live in the desert--for a sensation? We don’t know.”
“We do know. The man has had sorrow and the man has had sin. Yes,
believe me, there is none of us that suffers as this man has suffered.
I have had many, many talks with him. Believe me, Maurice, I speak the
truth. My heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove him
here amongst us. It is a great temptation, which pursues him here--even
here, where his life is so commendable. I have seen him fighting it. I
have seen his torture, the piteous, ignoble yielding, and the struggle,
with more than mortal energy, to be master of himself.”
“It is--” the Seigneur said, then paused.
“No, no; do not ask me. He has not confessed to me, Maurice-naturally,
nothing like that. But I know. I know and pity--ah, Maurice, I almost
love. You argue, and reason, but I know this, my friend, that something
was left out of this man when he was made, and it is that thing that
we must find, or he will die among us a ruined soul, and his gravestone
will be the monument of our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if
he can once say, ‘Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,’ then his
temptation will vanish, and I shall bring him in--I shall lead him
home.”
For an instant the Seigneur looked at him in amazement, for this was a
Cure he had never known.
“Dear Cure, you are not your old self,” he said gently.
“I am not myself--yes, that is it, Maurice. I am not the old humdrum
Cure you knew. The whole world is my field now. I have sorrowed for sin,
within the bounds of this little Chaudiere. Now I sorrow for unbelief.
Through this man, through much thinking on him, I have come to feel the
woe of all the world. I have come to hear the footsteps of the Master
near. My friend, it is not a legend, not a belief now, it is a presence.
I owe him much, Maurice. In bringing him home, I shall understand what
it all means--the faith that we profess. I shall in truth feel that
it is all real. You see how much I may yet owe to him--to this infidel
tailor. I only hope I have not betrayed him,” he added anxiously. “I
would keep faith with him--ah, yes, indeed!”
“I only remember that you have said the man suffers. That is no
betrayal.”
They entered the village in silence. Presently, however, the sound of
Maximilian Cour’s violin, as they passed the bakery, set the Seigneur’s
tongue wagging again, and it wagged on till they came to the tailor’s
shop.
“Good-day to you, Monsieur,” he said, as they entered.
“Have you a hot goose for me?”
“I have, but I will not press it on you,” replied Charley.
“Should you so take my question--eh?”
“Should you so take my ‘anser’?”
The pun was new to the Seigneur, and he turned to the Cure chuckling.
“Think of that, Cure! He knows the classics.” He laughed till the tears
came into his eyes.
The next few moments Charley was busy measuring the two potentates for
greatcoats. As it was his first work for them, it was necessary for the
Cure to write down the Seigneur’s measurements, as the tailor called
them off, while the Seigneur did the same when the Cure was being
measured. So intent were the three it might have been a conference of
war. The Seigneur ventured a distant but self-conscious smile when
the measurement of his waist was called, for he had by two inches the
advantage of the Cure, though they were the same age, while he was one
inch better in the chest. The Seigneur was proud of his figure, and,
unheeding the passing of fashions, held to the knee-breeches and silk
stockings long after they had disappeared from the province. To the Cure
he had often said that the only time he ever felt heretical was when in
the presence of the gaitered calves of a Protestant dean. He wore his
sleeves tight and his stock high, as in the days when William the Sailor
was king in England, and his long gold-topped Prince Regent cane was the
very acme of dignity.
The measurement done, the three studied the fashion plates--mostly five
years old--as Von Moltke and Bismarck might have studied the field of
Gravelotte. The Seigneur’s remarks were highly critical, till, with a
few hasty strokes on brown paper, Charley sketched in his figure with
a long overcoat in style much the same as his undercoat, stately and
flowing and confined at the waist.
“Admirable, most admirable!” said the Seigneur. “The likeness is
astonishing”--he admired the carriage of his own head in Charley’s swift
lines--“the garment in perfect taste. Form--there is nothing like form
and proportion in life. It is almost a religion.”
“My dear friend!” said the Cure, in amazement.
“I know when I am in the presence of an artist and his work. Louis
Trudel had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here has
eye and head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I were
twenty-five, with the assistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks in
Fabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?” he
suddenly asked, pointing to the drawing.
“Style a la Rossignol, Seigneur,” said the tailor.
The Seigneur was flattered out of all reason. He looked across at the
post-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of the
shop.
“Ah, if I had but ordered this coat sooner!” he said regretfully. He was
thinking that to-morrow was Michaelmas day, when he was to ask Rosalie
for her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing before her in
the gentle cool of the evening, in this coat, lightly thrown back,
disclosing his embroidered waistcoat, seals, and snowy linen. “Monsieur,
I am highly complimented, believe me,” he said. “Observe, Cure, that
this coat is invented for me on the spot.”
The Cure nodded appreciatively. “Wonderful! Wonderful! But do you not
think,” he added, a little wistfully--for, was he not a Frenchman,
susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?--“do you not
think it might be too fashionable for me?”
“Not a whit--not a whit,” replied the Seigneur generously. “Should not
a Cure look distinguished--be dignified? Consider the length, the line,
the eloquence of design! Ah, Monsieur, once again, you are an artist!
The Cure shall wear it--indeed but he shall! Then I shall look like him,
and perhaps get credit for some of his perfections.”
“And the Cure?” said Charley.
“The Cure?--the Cure? Tiens, a little of my worldliness will do him
good. There are no contrasts in him. He must wear the coat.” He waved
his walking-stick complacently, for he was thinking that the Cure’s less
perfect figure would set off his own well as they walked together. “May
I have the honour to keep this as a souvenir?” he added, picking up the
sketch.
“With pleasure,” answered Charley. “You do not need it?”
“Not at all.”
The Cure looked a little disappointed, and Charley, seeing, immediately
sketched on brown paper the priestly figure in the new-created coat, a
la Rossignol. On this drawing he was a little longer engaged, with the
result that the Cure was reproduced with a singular fidelity--in face,
figure, and expression a personality gentle yet important.
“On my soul, you shall not have it!” said the Seigneur. “But you shall
have me, and I shall have you, lest we both grow vain by looking at
ourselves.” He thrust the sketch of himself into the Cure’s hands, and
carefully rolled up that of his friend.
The Cure was amazed at this gift of the tailor, and delighted with the
picture of himself--his vanity was as that of a child, without guile or
worldliness. He was better pleased, however, to have the drawing of his
friend by him, that vanity might not be too companionable. He thanked
Charley with a beaming face, and then the two friends bowed and moved
towards the door. Suddenly the Cure stopped.
“My dear Maurice,” said he, “we have forgotten the important thing.”
“Think of that--we two old babblers!” said the Seigneur. He nodded for
the Cure to begin. “Monsieur,” said the Cure to Charley, “you maybe
able to help us in a little difficulty. For a long time we have intended
holding a great mission with a kind of religious drama like that
performed at Ober-Ammergau, and called The Passion Play. You know of it,
Monsieur?”
“Very well through reading, Monsieur.”
“Next Easter we propose having a Passion Play in pious imitation of
the famous drama. We will hold it at the Indian reservation of Four
Mountains, thus quickening our own souls and giving a good object-lesson
of the great History to the Indians.”
The Cure paused rather anxiously, but Charley did not speak. His eyes
were fixed inquiringly on the Cure, and he had a sudden suspicion that
some devious means were forward to influence him. He dismissed the
thought, however, for this Cure was simple as man ever was made,
straightforward as the most heretical layman might demand.
The Cure, taking heart, again continued: “Now I possess an authentic
description of the Ober-Ammergau drama, giving details of its
presentation at different periods, and also a book of the play. But
there is no one in the parish who reads German, and it occurred to the
Seigneur and myself that, understanding French so well, by chance you
may understand German also, and would, perhaps, translate the work for
us.”
“I read German easily and speak it fairly,” Charley answered, relieved;
“and you are welcome to my services.”
The Cure’s pale face flushed with pleasure. He took the little German
book from his pocket, and handed it over.
“It is not so very long,” he said; “and we shall all be grateful.” Then
an inspiration came to him; his eyes lighted.
“Monsieur,” he said, “you will notice that there are no illustrations
in the book. It is possible that you might be able to make us a few
drawings--if we do not ask too much? It would aid greatly in the matter
of costume, and you might use my library--I have a fair number of
histories.” The Cure was almost breathless, his heart thumped as he made
the request. After a slight pause he added, hastily: “You are always
doing for others. It is hardly kind to ask you; but we have some months
to spare; there need be no haste.” Charley hastened to relieve the
Cure’s anxiety. “Do not apologise,” he said. “I will do what I can when
I can. But as for drawing, Monsieur, it will be but amateurish.”
“Monsieur,” interposed the Seigneur promptly, “if you’re not an artist,
I’m damned!”
“Maurice!” murmured the Cure reproachfully. “Can’t help it, Cure. I’ve
held it in for an hour. It had to come; so there it is exploded. I see
no damage either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur,” he added to
Charley, “if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold me. I should put
on more airs than Beauty Steele.”
It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley’s face was turned away,
or the Seigneur would have seen it go white and startled. Charley did
not dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What did the
Seigneur know of Beauty Steele?
To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a
cupboard in the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time
to recover himself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his
manner composed.
“And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele?” he said. “Faith I do not know,”
answered the Seigneur, taking a pinch of snuff. “It’s years since I
first read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me
from the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as a
clever fop, a very handsome fellow. So I thought it a good phrase,
and I’ve used it ever since on occasions. ‘More airs than Beauty
Steele.’--It has a sound; it’s effective, I fancy, Monsieur?”
“Decidedly effective,” answered Charley quietly. He picked up his
shears. “You will excuse me,” he said grimly, “but I must earn my
living. I cannot live on my reputation.”
The Seigneur and the Cure lifted their hats--to the tailor.
“Au revoir, Monsieur,” they both said, and Charley bowed them out.
The two friends turned to each other a little way up the street.
“Something will come of this, Cure,” said the Seigneur. The Cure, whose
face had a look of happiness, pressed his arm in reply.
Inside the tailor-shop, a voice kept saying, “More airs than Beauty
Steele!”