The story now becomes a horrible narrative of battle, treachery, and

murder. Menendez attacked the French vessels without doing much injury,

and then, hastening southward to the spot which he had already selected

as the site of a settlement, began the building of St. Augustine. From

St. Augustine he marched with five hundred men through the swamps, in

the midst of a long and violent storm, surprised Fort Caroline, and

put most of the garrison to the sword. At the spot of the execution,

Menendez erected a stone with the inscription, “I do this, not as

to Frenchmen, but as to Lutherans.” Nearly three years afterwards,

Dominic de Gourgues, after a semi-piratical cruise along the coast of

Africa and among the West India Islands, crossed over from Cuba to the

mainland to avenge the slaughter of his countrymen. He reached the fort

unsuspected, and took it by escalade, with the help of a large force

of Indians. Then the prisoners were led to the scene of the former

massacre, and all hanged upon a tree, with the inscription: “I do

this, not as to Spaniards nor as to maranes,[195] but as to traitors,

robbers, and murderers.” Such is the story of Dominic de Gourgues, as

Charlevoix gives it after contemporary French accounts. No Spanish

version of it is known to exist, and Mr. Shea points out in a note the

reasons for regarding it with some suspicion. The conqueror could not

hold what he had won. Burning the fort, and destroying all the plunder

that he was unable to carry away, he hastened back to France; and so

ended the history of French Florida.

It was about thirty years after this that the Marquis de la Roche,

a gentleman of Brittany, received from Henri IV. a commission as

lieutenant-general of the king “in the countries of Canada, Hochelaga,

Newfoundland, Labrador, River of the Great Bay [St. Lawrence],

Norimbegue, and adjacent lands,” and fitted out a vessel to explore

his territory. Landing on Sable Island, ninety miles from the mainland

of Nova Scotia (1598), he left there a colony of forty convicts whom

he had drawn from the French prisons, coasted awhile along the shores

of Acadia (Nova Scotia), without accomplishing anything of value, and

then went back to France. Contrary winds prevented his taking off the

wretched colony of Sable Island, and it was not until seven years

later that the king, hearing of the adventure, sent a ship to their

relief. Only twelve remained alive, and these were brought to court in

the same guise in which they were found, “covered with sealskin, with

hair and beard of a length and disorder that made them resemble the

pretended river-gods, and so disfigured as to inspire horror. The king

gave them fifty crowns apiece, and sent them home released from all

process of law.” The expedition of De Monts and Pontgravé (1604) was

more fortunate. It resulted in the settlement of Port Royal (Annapolis)

by M. de Poutrincourt, under a grant from M. de Monts, afterwards

confirmed by the crown; it brought forward Samuel de Champlain, who was

soon to play so distinguished a part in the exploration and settlement

of Canada; and it offered a career to the Jesuit missionaries, whose

heroism reflected so much glory upon the colony. The king had

intimated to M. de Poutrincourt, when he confirmed the grant of Port

Royal, that it was proper to invite the Jesuits to the new colony;

and, by his majesty’s desire, two priests were selected from the

many who volunteered to go. These were F. Peter Biard and F. Enemond

Masse. Strange to say, the first difficulties they encountered were

from their own countrymen. “M. de Poutrincourt was a very worthy man,”

says Charlevoix, “sincerely attached to the Catholic religion; but the

calumnies of the so-called Reformers had produced an impression on his

mind, and he was fully determined not to take them to Port Royal. He

did not, however, show anything of this to the king, who, having given

his orders, had no doubt but that they were executed with all speed.

The Jesuits thought so; and F. Biard, at the commencement of the year

[1608], proceeded to Bordeaux, where he was assured the embarkation

would take place. He was much surprised to see no preparation there;

and he waited in vain for a whole year. The king, informed of this,

reproached M. de Poutrincourt sharply; and the latter pledged his

word to the king that he would no longer defer obeying his orders.

He actually prepared to go; but, as he said nothing of embarking the

missionaries, F. Cotton paid him a visit, to bring him to do so in a

friendly way. Poutrincourt begged him to be good enough to postpone it

till the following year, as Port Royal was by no means in a condition

to receive the fathers. So frivolous a reason was regarded by F. Cotton

as a refusal, but he did not deem it expedient to press the matter or

inform the king. M. de Poutrincourt accordingly sailed for Acadia; and,

with a view of showing the court that the ministry of the Jesuits was

not necessary in the conversion of the heathen, he had scarcely arrived

before he sent the king a list of twenty-five Indians baptized in

haste.” Meanwhile, the king died, and Poutrincourt considered himself

thereupon released from his obligation. It was in this difficulty that

the Marchioness de Guercheville, whose name is so honorably associated

with American adventure, declared herself the protectress of the

missions. But the story of the troubles which this powerful advocate

had to overcome gives us a curious idea of the manner in which American

affairs were regulated at the French court. Biencourt, the son of M. de

Poutrincourt, was about sailing for Acadia, and consented to take the

missionaries. When the fathers reached Dieppe, Biencourt had changed

his mind, or been overruled by his two Huguenot partners, and passage

was refused. Mme. de Guercheville had recourse to the queen mother, who

gave a peremptory order that the Jesuits should be taken on board. The

order was laughed at, and nobody attempted to enforce it. Then Mme. de

Guercheville raised a subscription, bought off the two Calvinists, and

proceeded to treat with Biencourt. Not finding his title clear, she

purchased of M. de Monts all his lapsed privileges, with the purpose of

reviving them, and formed a partnership with Biencourt, under which the

subsistence of the missionaries was to be drawn from the fishery and

fur trade. Thus at last a woman accomplished what the king had failed

in, and F. Biard and F. Masse reached the scene of their labors in 1611.

Mme. de Guercheville soon fell out with Poutrincourt, and resolved to

found a colony of her own. She despatched a ship under the Sieur de la

Saussaye in 1613. The settlers landed on Mount Desert, and there began

a settlement, bringing FF. Biard and Masse from Port Royal, and having

with them also two other Jesuits, a priest named Quentin, and a lay

brother, Du Thet. The narrative of the destruction of this settlement

as well as Port Royal by the English free-booting adventurer Argall,

from Virginia, is familiar to all American readers. The colony had not

yet assumed a regulated form when the Englishman swept down upon it,

carried some of the settlers to Virginia, and sent the rest to sea in

a small bark. The latter, among whom was F. Masse, were picked up by

a French ship, and carried to St. Malo. The others, after much harsh

treatment at Jamestown from Sir Thomas Dale, were taken back to Acadia

with an expedition sent to complete the demolition of the French posts.

Argall performed his task thoroughly, and set sail again for Virginia.

Of his three vessels, scattered in a storm, one was lost; another,

under his own command, reached Jamestown in safety; the third, bearing

Fathers Biard and Quentin (Brother du Thet had been killed in Argall’s

first attack), and having one Turnell for captain, was driven to the

Azores, and forced to seek shelter at Fayal. Here the Jesuits had only

to complain of the outrages to which they had been subjected, and they

would have been at once avenged. Turnell was alarmed, and begged them

to keep concealed when the officers of the port visited his vessel.

“They consented with good grace. The visit over, the English captain

had liberty to buy all that he needed, after which he again weighed

anchor, and the rest of his voyage was fortunate. But he found himself

in a new embarrassment on arriving in England: he had no commission,

and, although he represented that he had accidentally been separated

from his commander, he was looked upon as a deserter from Virginia, and

put in prison, from which he was released only on the testimony of the

Jesuits. After this time, he was unwearied in publishing the virtue

of the missionaries, twice his liberators, and especially the service

they had done him at Fayal, where they returned good for evil as they

so generously did, foregoing all the advantages which they might have

obtained by making themselves known. Nothing, indeed, was omitted to

compensate for them in England, where they were very kindly treated as

long as they remained.”

The settlements in Canada proper, however, were now firmly established,

and Quebec was rapidly becoming prosperous. The early history of this

town, the adventures and discoveries of Champlain, the expeditions

of the settlers against the Iroquois, and the surrender of Quebec

to the English under Kirk (or Kertk), who was a Frenchman by birth,

though an officer in the English service, are told by F. Charlevoix

at considerable length. It was in 1629 that Quebec fell, and three

years afterwards the whole colony was restored to France by the treaty

of St. Germain. Champlain returned with the title of Governor of

New France in 1633, and began at once that zealous and enlightened

career of missionary labor by which he has won so glorious a fame.

For we may well style him a missionary. Entrusted with the temporal

government of the young colony, it was not his part to explore the

wilderness with crucifix and missal, to venture into the cabins of the

savages as a teacher of the Gospel, to brave martyrdom, to suffer

unheard-of tortures, even to the stake; but he nevertheless fulfilled

an important, an almost indispensable, function in the establishment of

the Canada missions. He was the best friend and patron of the Jesuits

and other heroes who gave their lives so freely among the Indians. He

took care that a number of these devoted priests should be invited to

the colony, and that the settlers themselves should give an example

of Christian demeanor that might do credit to their teachers. “In a

short time,” says Charlevoix, “almost all who composed the new colony

were seen to follow the example of their governor, and make an open

and sincere profession of piety. The same attention was continued

in subsequent years, and there soon arose in this part of America a

generation of true Christians, among whom reigned the simplicity of the

primitive ages of the church, and whose posterity have not lost sight

of the great example left them by their ancestors. The consolation

which such a change afforded the laborers appointed to cultivate this

transplanted vineyard so sweetened the crosses of the most painful

mission ever perhaps established in the New World, that what they wrote

to their brethren in France created among them a real eagerness to go

and share their labors. The annual _Relations_ which we have of these

happy times, and the constant tradition preserved in the country,

both attest that there was an indescribable unction attached to this

Indian mission which made it preferred to many others infinitely more

brilliant and even more fruitful.” Champlain’s career, however, as

governor was unhappily too short. He died on Christmas day, in 1635.

“He may well be called,” says the historian, “the father of New France.

He had good sense, much penetration, very upright views, and no man

was ever more skilled in adopting a course in the most complicated

affairs. What all admired most in him was his constancy in following

up his enterprises; his firmness in the greatest dangers; a courage

proof against the most unforeseen reverses and disappointments; ardent

and disinterested patriotism; a heart tender and compassionate for the

unhappy, and more attentive to the interests of his friends than his

own; a high sense of honor, and great probity. His memoirs show that he

was not ignorant of anything that one of his profession should know;

and we find in him a faithful and sincere historian, an attentively

observant traveller, a judicious writer, a good mathematician, and an

able mariner. But what crowns all these good qualities is the fact that

in his life, as well as in his writings, he shows himself always a

truly Christian man, zealous for the service of God, full of candor and

religion. He was accustomed to say, what we read in his memoirs, ‘that

the salvation of a single soul was worth more than the conquest of an

empire, and that kings should seek to extend their domain in heathen

countries only to subject them to Christ.’”

We have insensibly gone deeper into these attractive volumes than we

intended, and we must pass over the remaining books, which record the

growth of the Canadian settlements, the wars with the Indians after

Champlain’s death, the hostilities with the English, and the progress

of the missions. Neither can we linger over the fascinating story of

Marquette’s voyage down the Mississippi, or the expeditions, of La

Salle, or the various attempts at colonizing the shores of the Mexican

Gulf. What little space remains for us we must give to an examination

of a portion of Mr. Shea’s labor which has not yet been duly estimated.

He has given much more than a translation of F. Charlevoix’s

_Histoire_. The text is rendered with great care, and we presume with

great faithfulness, into simple, graceful, and idiomatic English. The

peculiarities of the original, in the orthography of proper names and

in other particulars, are all preserved. It is indeed Charlevoix’s

work, as exactly as any work can be reproduced in a language different

from its author’s. But Mr. Shea has bestowed upon it an editorial

supervision which nearly doubles its value. With extraordinary zeal,

learning, and intelligence, he has traced almost every statement to

its source, collated rare authorities, and in modest and compact

foot-notes, whose number must amount to several thousands, has

corrected errors, identified localities, and thrown a perfect flood of

light upon doubtful passages and controverted statements. The patient

industry, the rare judgment, and the unassuming scholarship which

Mr. Shea has brought to the execution of this noble task can only be

appreciated by one who has studied his work with some care, and to whom

familiarity with the subject has taught something of its difficulties.

He has not only been at the pains of consulting the authors to whom F.

Charlevoix expressly refers, weighing the soundness of F. Charlevoix’s

conclusions from their testimony, and correcting his citations, but he

has made it a point to discover the authorities whom the good father

followed without quoting, and he has often pursued devious statements

backward through a score of forgotten books, until he has reached

at last the sober truth from which they started. Doing this without

parade, without verbosity, and with an icy impartiality, Mr. Shea has

approved himself a model editor.

The outward appearance of the six volumes will delight the heart of

the fastidious collector. Such beautiful and symmetrical arrangement

of the generous pages, such royal elegance of type, such rich and

refined tints, such noble margins, and such magnificent paper—every

leaf stout enough to stand alone—these things make up the gorgeous

apparel in which the work has been dressed, we may say, by Mr. Shea’s

own hands. Excellent engravings add not merely to its appearance but

its value. There are steel-plate portraits of governors, adventurers,

and missionaries; there are fac-similes of autographs; there are

copies of curious old maps and plans. Finally, the book is furnished

with a copious and systematic index—and so Mr. Shea shows himself

conscientious alike as an editor and publisher.

MADAME AGNES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE ENEMY ON EITHER HAND.

WHAT I have just related took place in the month of August. I was at

that time extremely anxious about Victor, but an unexpected improvement

took place in his condition after Louis’ visit. Alas! he was never to

rally again.

Louis sent every morning for some time to know how his sick friend was,

but he only came to see us once, and then merely for a few minutes. He

only left St. M—— with regret. He seemed to feel that, in absenting

himself, he left the field clear to his bold rival, as it was now

evident he was, and at a time when an attack was threatened against

what he cherished the most—the good work he had begun, and Eugénie’s

affection. He did not, therefore, inform us at that time of all I have

just related. On the contrary, we were left in a state of painful

incertitude. But I had every detail at a later day, even the very

thoughts of both parties, and from their own lips.

However, Albert was not fitted to play the part of a man of gravity or

that of a hypocrite for a long time. For that, more perseverance and

ability than he had were required. A frivolous man like him may, by

careful watch over himself, assume an appearance of thoughtfulness,

but he will soon show himself in his true colors through weariness, or

at an unguarded moment. He had hardly been in the house a fortnight

before he unconsciously showed what he was at the bottom of his heart.

He rose at a late hour, he resumed his habit of careful attention to

his toilet, he lounged about from morning till night, conversing only

of trivial things or discussing points he was ignorant of, and read

romances of a doubtful character, which, so far from hiding, he left

about in his room. Eugénie kept an eye open to all these things. She

watched her cousin with the natural persistency she inherited from

her father; she drew her own conclusions, and ended by treating him

just as she used to do, like a spoiled child she loved because he was

a relative, but would not, on any account, have for a husband. Albert

tried now and then to resume his gravity; he went to church, and

discussed the loftiest themes. Vain efforts! His uncle and cousin knew

what to think of it all. Albert perceived it, and was inwardly furious.

Mme. Smithson alone manifested an ever-increasing fondness for him. Her

affection for his mother as well as himself, and her acknowledged but

constant wish for Mr. Smithson’s property to come into the possession

of her own family by the marriage of the two cousins, inclined her

towards her nephew. But of what account was Mme. Smithson in the house?

Very little. Albert was under no illusion on this point, and therefore

had never attached much importance to his aunt’s support. For two or

three days he exulted over the stratagem he had formed for awakening

unfavorable sentiments in his cousin’s heart toward the engineer.

But Eugénie’s suspicions could not last long without her seeking an

explanation. Then all would be lost, for Albert felt that Louis did not

love Madeleine. If, on the other hand, Eugénie was not in love with

Louis, she would keep her conjectures to herself, and merely withdraw

her favor from him.

Albert’s affairs, therefore, had not in any respect taken the turn he

hoped in the beginning. “What can be done? What can be done?” he said

to himself. “I must devise some way of getting rid of this fellow who

is disturbing my uncle and Eugénie’s peace of mind so much. Things

must be brought to a crisis. If Louis were only dismissed, my cousin

in her despair would accept me as her husband. My uncle would manifest

no opposition out of regard for his wife, and because, after all, I

should not be a troublesome son-in-law. At all events, I should have

the satisfaction of routing a creature I detest. Whether Eugénie loves

him or not, I can never, no, never suffer this artful man to marry her.

If my coming only serves to drive him away, I shall be glad I came.”

Such calculations were extremely base and dishonorable, but it must be

remembered that Albert was devoid of piety, he coveted his cousin’s

dowry, and his antipathy to Louis became stronger every day. People

destitute of moral principle and religious faith hate those who possess

the good qualities they lack themselves. Albert had tried in vain to

blind himself with regard to Louis; but the more he studied him, the

more clearly he saw he was incontestably a man of great depth, sincere

piety, and uncommon energy. At first he doubted his worth, but he could

question it no longer.

Eugénie during this time was extremely sad and preoccupied, though no

one would have suspected what was passing in the depths of her soul.

The poor girl could no longer conceal it from herself: she loved

Louis. But she was still uncertain as to his love for her. She even

asked herself—and this was an additional torture—if he was worthy

of the affection she bore him. You will not be astonished if I add

that, romantic as Eugénie was, she was a woman to be driven in such a

conjuncture to the very step Albert was aiming at. Only one thing was

wanting to effect this—the necessity of withdrawing her esteem from

Louis. In a noble nature like hers, it would have quenched her love and

broken her very heart to despise the object of her affections.

Affairs were in this condition when a new incident came to the aid

of Albert’s schemes. Mr. Smithson, it will be well to recall, was

not originally a manufacturer of paper. A dishonest broker, or one

who lacked shrewdness, led him into a succession of unfortunate

speculations. Repeated losses were the result. Mr. Smithson perceived

his property was diminishing in an alarming manner. He at once settled

up his affairs, and, by the advice of Louis’ father, bought the mill

at St. M——, the proprietor of which had just died. This was in every

respect an advantageous investment: First, it withdrew him from the

arena of stock speculations, where fortune, conscience, and honor are

daily risked; in the next place, the mill he purchased brought in a

fine income. But it was no small affair to conduct such an enterprise,

employing as it did five or six hundred workmen.

Mr. Smithson’s predecessor, a man perfectly familiar with the business,

directed the establishment himself. Everything went on prosperously,

and Mr. Smithson wished to imitate him. In a few months, he saw he was

going wrong. The workmen were indolent, the machinery deteriorated,

everything was going to ruin. It is not sufficient to be methodical,

intelligent, and energetic, in order to conduct a manufacturing

concern; a man must have a special knowledge of mechanics and a

faculty of adaptation which Mr. Smithson did not possess. He became

conscious of this, and resolved to obtain a book-keeper of probity

and intelligence to keep his accounts, and an engineer equally versed

in his business. They were both soon found, but the book-keeper alone

proved suitable. The engineer had practical knowledge enough, but was

deficient in energy. The workmen and overseers soon perceived it, and

profited by it to do less and less. The engineer was discharged and

Louis chosen to fill his place.

From the time of Louis’ arrival, the aspect of everything changed.

The workmen felt they now had a superintendent to deal with that was

inflexible but just. The overseers alone were inclined to resist

his authority. They were sharply reprimanded, and the most mutinous

discharged. Mr. Smithson, warned by his previous experience, seconded

Louis with all the weight of his authority. He gave him absolute

control of the manufactory when he was absent, and never failed to come

to his support whenever Louis found severe measures necessary.

All this did not take place, it may well be supposed, without exciting

some murmurs and secret rancor. Among the foremost of those most

dissatisfied with this necessary rigor was an overseer by the name

of Durand, who came to the mill some months before Louis. He was a

man of about forty years of age, of lofty stature, a sombre face

expressive of energy, and grave and fluent of speech. He came provided

with the best recommendations, but it was afterwards learned they

were forged. This man succeeded both in intimidating the engineer who

preceded Louis, and acquiring his favor. Half through fear, and half

weakness, he allowed Durand to assume an authority he abused in many

ways. When Louis replaced this weak man so afraid of Durand, there

was more than one contest between him and the overseer. Their last

altercation had been very violent. Durand insulted the engineer before

all the workmen, and in so bold a manner that Mr. Smithson, informed

of what had taken place, at once discharged him. Rather than give up

his situation, Durand submitted to the humiliation of begging Louis’

pardon. Notwithstanding this, he was merely kept on sufferance, though

he was well paid, for he was clever in his way, and in one sense a

model overseer: no one kept better discipline.

Astonishing as it may seem, when Louis instituted the evening-school,

Durand was the first to offer his assistance, and was appointed

monitor. One thing, however, tried Louis: his monitor, always polite

and respectful to his face, was in the habit of whispering behind his

back, as if secretly conniving with the men. But nothing occurred

to justify his suspicions, and Louis at length ceased to attach any

importance to the overseer’s strange ways. When the night-school

closed, about half-past eight, Durand went away a little before

Louis to finish the evening at the St. M—— café, which was greatly

frequented by the inhabitants of the place. There he gambled and

harangued at his ease, and acquired the reputation of being the ablest

talker in the country around. As to his political opinions, they were

not positively known. He was suspected of being a demagogue, and even

an ultra one, but there was no proof of it. He was less secret about

his religious belief. He called himself a Protestant, and a thorough

one.

Meanwhile, Albert began to find the life he was leading at his uncle’s

wearisome and monotonous. The evenings especially seemed interminable.

Mr. Smithson read, Mme. Smithson was absorbed in her tapestry, and

Eugénie played on the piano. Albert did not know what to do with

himself. He did not dare have recourse to a novel; conversation with

his aunt was not very enlivening; and, if he addressed himself to

Eugénie, she showed so much skill in embarrassing him on every subject

that he avoided the occasion of appearing to so much disadvantage.

Besides, Eugénie’s superiority irritated him. Had it not been for her

fortune, which he found more and more attractive, and her beauty, to

which he could not remain insensible, he would at once have given up

all thoughts of marrying her. But her property on the one hand, and her

beauty on the other, deterred him. However, with his frivolous mind,

he soon found it intolerable to be confined to his cousin’s society

every evening, even for the purpose of paying court to her. One night,

it suddenly occurred to him to go to the café, and after that he went

there regularly after dinner to pass an hour. He was welcomed very

cordially, especially by Durand, who at once made every effort to win

his favor. The wily overseer was so profuse in respectful attentions

that in a few evenings they were friends. Durand, with his uncommon

penetration, soon discovered from some indiscreet words Albert dropped

what was troubling his shallow mind. He could see he was desirous of

marrying his cousin, and so suspicious of Louis that he detested him

and asked for nothing better than to see him dismissed. Durand at once

resolved to gain Albert’s friendship and profit by it to involve Louis

in some inextricable embarrassment. He was determined to have his

revenge at whatever cost, but it was necessary to proceed with caution.

He began by sounding Albert to make sure of his antipathy to Louis,

that he really wished for his dismissal, and if he cared what means

were employed provided the end was attained.

Durand gave himself no rest till he was sure of all this—a certitude

he acquired the day when Albert, impatient at the unfavorable progress

of his affairs, resolved to bring things to a sudden crisis by having

Louis dismissed, if possible. The overseer waited till Albert left the

café, and then proposed he should accompany him to the manufactory,

where he lodged.

“Willingly, my good fellow,” said Albert. It was a fine evening in the

month of September. They set off together by the road that ran along

the river half-hidden among trees, through which the moon diffused its

purest radiance.

“We do not see you any more at the mill,” said Durand. “I daresay I

could guess why you have stopped visiting the school.... Would there be

any indiscretion in telling you the reason that has occurred to me?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Well, then, if I am not mistaken, there is some one at the mill not

exactly to your liking.... Yes, somebody keeps you away....”

“That may be.”

“Ah! I am no fool. I think I have found out the cause of our being

deprived of your visits. It must have been something serious. See if

I haven’t some wit left.... The person you dislike is M. Louis, is it

not?”

“You are right, my friend,” replied Albert, patting Durand on the

shoulder in a familiar manner.

“There are others who do not like him any better than you.”

“Not you? You are his assistant at the school, and seem on the best of

terms with him.”

“_Seem?_ Yes, I seem; but to seem and be are sometimes very different

things. Listen: the very instant I saw you—excuse my frankness—you

inspired me with so much confidence that, faith, I feel inclined to

tell you all that is on my mind. It would do me good.”

“Do not be afraid of my betraying you, _mon cher_; speak to me as a

friend.”

“O monsieur! you are too kind. Well, since you allow me, I tell you

plainly I do not like that man; no, not at all.”

“He has been insolent and overbearing towards you, I know.”

“If that were all, I could forgive him. But it is not a question of

myself. I dislike, I detest him for another reason. Whoever likes Mr.

Smithson cannot like the engineer, as I can convince anybody who wishes

it.”

“Explain yourself; I do not exactly understand you.”

“Well—but swear you will never repeat what I am going to say.”

“I give you my word, which I never break.”

“Well, then, this M. Louis is a Tartuffe—a Jesuit; such men are

dangerous. Woe to the houses they enter! He has wasted all his

property, we know how! It is a shame!... Then he artfully obtained

a place in your uncle’s mill, where he has assumed more and more

authority; he tries to influence the minds of the workmen; he ...

wishes to marry your cousin.... _Parbleu!_ I may as well say aloud what

everybody is saying in secret.”

“Do they say that, Durand?”

“Yes, that is the report. But his art and hypocrisy are in vain. More

than one of us understand his projects.... And let me assure you we

tremble lest he succeed! There will be fine doings when the mill passes

into the hands of this Jesuit, who will spend all of Mr. Smithson’s

property, and prepare him a pitiful old age. Do you see now why I

cannot endure that man? Oh! if I were master I would soon set him

a-flying.... But I am not the master, ... it is he who is likely to be.

If somebody could only get him dismissed!”

“Yes, yes,” said Albert, in a conceited tone. “There is some truth

in what you say—a great deal, in fact.... Since I have been here, I

have watched and studied his movements, and agree with you that it was

rather an unlucky day for my uncle when he admitted this intriguer into

his house. His schemes make me anxious.”

“Is there no way of defeating them?”

“It would be no easy matter.”

“Come, now! As if you, Mr. Smithson’s nephew; you who have more

learning than all of us put together—who have more wit than I, though

I am no fool—as if you could not send him adrift if you wished to!...

You could never make me believe that.”

“What can I do? I certainly ask for nothing better than to get him into

some difficulty; but how? He performs his duties with exasperating

fidelity.”

“Oh! it is not on that score you must attack him; he is too cunning to

be at fault there.”

“Well, if he is not at fault, do you wish me to make him out so?”

“Precisely. That is what must be done. See here, M. Albert, as you

know of no way, I will tell you an idea that has come into my head;

for I have been a long time contriving some means of driving that man

away. But I must first warn you not to take my plan for more than it is

worth. If it is not a good one, we will try to discover a better one.”

“Let us hear it.”

“We have an Englishman at the mill who tells me he does not intend to

remain. This man has been to the evening-school several times. M. Louis

has lent him religious books.... Can’t you guess what I am at?”

“No.”

“Well, this is my plan. The man I refer to and I are linked together.

It would be a long story to tell how and why. If I should go to

him—to-morrow, for instance—and say: ‘Adams, I know you intend

leaving St. M——. Will you do your friend a favor before you go? Rid

me of that engineer. I do not mean for you to kill him or do him any

harm: we are neither of us murderers. I simply propose you should play

him some trick, as they call it. You are on good terms with him: he

lends you books. Go and tell him you have come to consult him about

some doubts on the subject of religion. Beg him to enlighten you. Ask

for some controversial works, and cautiously insinuate the possibility

of abjuring your religion. You will naturally be open in your projects.

You will even talk of them with an air of profound conviction. This

will cause some noise. I shall then take hold of it. In case of

necessity, I shall have a violent dispute with the engineer, which

of course will oblige Mr. Smithson to interfere.’ I know he is not

disposed to jest about such matters. Once the affair is brought before

him, the engineer is lost. I will not give him a week to remain at the

mill after that.... Such is my idea; what do you think of it?”

“Durand, you are a genius. Your plan is admirable. The moment my uncle

finds the engineer is trying to propagate his religion, he is lost, as

you say. You must put your project into execution without any delay.”

“I am glad to see you approve of it, not only because it flatters my

self-love, but because it makes me more hopeful of success. I should be

better satisfied, however, if you would promise to help us in case you

are needed.... We are not sure of succeeding in our plan. The engineer

is cunning, and Mr. Smithson’s way of acting is not always easy to

foresee. And if we should fail—if I get into difficulty!...”

“I promise to stand by you. Rest assured I shall not be backward in

trying my utmost to influence my uncle against him. This will be

easy, for he already distrusts the engineer. Nevertheless, admonish

your friend to be extremely cautious. No one must have the slightest

suspicion of the scheme. Success then would be impossible.”

“Adams does not lack wit. He will know how to manage. But one thing

alarms me, and will him. If his conversion were to offend Mr. Smithson

to such a degree as to cause his dismissal in disgrace! Where could he

go without recommendations?”

“Why, how simple you are! All this can be turned to his advantage.

As soon as he sees my uncle irritated, he must ask for a private

interview, consult him as to his belief, and pretend to yield to

his arguments. He must end by avowing his determination to remain a

Protestant, and declaring he had been led away by the engineer. The

result is evident.”

“You are sharper than I. I did not think of that. Your idea makes

everything safe, and settles the matter.”

“And when shall the first shot be fired?”

“To-morrow.”

“But one question more.... It would be vexatious if the engineer

refused the bait and sent Adams a-walking.”

“No danger of that. The engineer is a genuine fanatic. I am sure of

that, and I have had an opportunity of judging.”

While thus conversing, our two conspirators had nearly reached the

mill. They separated without being seen. Albert was radiant. As he

retired, he said to himself: “Why did I not think of this scheme

myself?... It is so simple, and cannot fail! A saint like the engineer

will risk everything to gain a soul.... And yet, if he should be

afraid, as Durand said; if he is only a Catholic outwardly!... That

would be embarrassing! Strange! for once, I hope the fellow is

sincere!...”

The following morning, Durand took a private opportunity of giving his

associate his instructions, and that night Adams begged Louis to grant

him an interview in his room after school.

The interview took place. Durand had only told the truth: Adams was an

artful fellow—one of those men who conceal uncommon duplicity under

the appearance of perfect candor. He had been Durand’s tool for a long

time. The latter had rendered him more than one service, and employed

him in numerous fraudulent transactions, which he generously rewarded

him for. Durand lent money upon pledge to workmen in difficulty. He

unlawfully appropriated a thousand small objects in the manufactory,

and had them sold. His assistant in this dishonest traffic, his man of

business, as he called him, was Adams, who was well paid, as may be

supposed.

The Englishman, cunning as he was, had some difficulty in persuading

Louis he was serious in his intention of abjuring his religion. But

he dwelt on his doubts with such apparent sincerity, he manifested

so strong a desire to be rescued from error, if he was in error,

that Louis immediately proposed he should consult the _curé_. Adams

pretended the _curé_ intimidated him; he was more at his ease with

Louis, and could talk to him with perfect openness of heart. “If I

have to go to the _curé_” said he, “well, then, I shall defer it. I do

not wish to expose myself to observations that would not fail to be

made. After all, monsieur,” he added, “I am only in doubt. I am not yet

convinced of being in error. When I see clearly I am, oh! then I will

no longer conceal my sentiments. But meanwhile, I do not wish everybody

to know what is passing in my soul.”

These plausible statements banished Louis’ suspicions. He received the

young man in his room several evenings in succession. He lent him a

small book, easy of comprehension, that contained a thorough refutation

of Protestantism. Poor Louis! he behaved with genuine heroism on this

occasion. From the first he foresaw all the trouble such an affair was

likely to cause him. He did not deceive himself as to the result of

this abjuration. He had an immediate presentiment of Mr. Smithson’s

anger, and the difficult, nay, intolerable position he would be in if

this conversion took place. No matter, he would brave everything rather

than neglect his duty as a Christian, which obliged him to point out

the true religion to all who sought it.

He was also preoccupied at this time by the remembrance of what had

taken place at Vinceneau’s, and suffered from the coolness Eugénie

manifested towards him. He saw he was kept more at a distance than

ever by Mr. Smithson, who looked upon him as a dangerous man. Louis’

situation, it must be confessed, was distressing. He would have given

much to have at least one consoling word from the lips of her whom he

loved, and before whom he saw he had been calumniated. This unhoped-for

happiness was at last granted him under peculiar circumstances. Louis

had just been to see the Vinceneau family, which was in a worse plight

than ever. The father had taken to drink with fresh madness, and

the mother had a fit of indolence that kept her away from the mill.

Madeleine alone worked for the whole family. Louis had been there to

reason with the mother, who gave him the worst possible reception.

He tried to encourage the daughter, but without success. Madeleine

had also, to some degree, the family weakness—a lack of energy of

character.

Louis had come away unusually dejected. On his way back to the

manufactory, while dwelling, first on these unfortunate people, then on

Adams, who that very day had spoken of soon abjuring his religion, and

finally on Victor, about whom he had just received the most alarming

intelligence, he met Eugénie face to face. She turned pale at seeing

him, and replied to his greeting with extreme coldness as she kept

on....

Louis’ sadness redoubled. He took a sudden resolution. “I must justify

myself,” he said, ... and, intimidated as he was—the man who loves

with a pure affection is always timid—he stopped and turned back.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, addressing Eugénie, “I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it, monsieur?”

“Among the poor families I am interested in is one I have never spoken

to you about.”

“You are under no obligation, monsieur, to inform me of all the

families you visit.”

“I know it, mademoiselle; but, as I am not ashamed of any of the

places I go to, I have no interest in concealing them. If I have

not heretofore spoken of this family, it was for a special reason.

These people, of the name of Vinceneau, were recommended to me by old

Françoise. She took the liveliest interest in one of the members of the

household—a girl by the name of Madeleine. She feared lest poverty and

her parents’ bad example might be a source of danger to one of her age.

Madeleine is irreproachable in her conduct, but weak in character, like

her father and mother. Françoise made me promise to watch over her. She

would have begged this favor of you, mademoiselle, had not a special

reason prevented her. She knew Madeleine’s parents were envious,

and regarded the rich with an evil eye. She feared exposing you to

impertinence if she brought you in contact with them. Consequently,

she recommended them to me. Madeleine has told me of your call at

the house. Your kindness touched the mother. As to the father, his

shameful passion for drink has brutalized him.”

Eugénie listened with undisguised interest, and softened as Louis

continued. When he had finished, she said: “What do you wish me to do?

to show some interest in them?”

“It would be a very timely act of charity. The mother has not done any

work for several days, the father is gone from morning till night, and

the daughter is discouraged. You can rouse her courage much better than

I. And allow me to say, mademoiselle, that the difficulties that once

might have hindered you being removed, this work, for many reasons, is

much more suitable for you than for me.”

“I will go to see them.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” replied Louis. “I am overwhelmed with cares

and occupations, and give the family up to you with pleasure.”

“Do you not mean to visit them any more?”

“I have a great mind not to.”

“Why not?”

“It is a delicate subject, but I think the less I go there, the better.”

“I understand you, ... but still I do not think you are right. _Fais ce

que dois, advienne que pourra_,[196] is my motto. Is it not yours?”

“It would be, mademoiselle, if the world were not so malicious.

As it is, people even of the best intentions cannot take too many

precautions. I confess there is nothing I dread more than calumny. It

always does injury, and it is hard to feel we are losing the esteem of

those whose good opinion we desire the most.”

“People who allow themselves to be influenced by calumny cannot have

much character.”

“Do you think so, mademoiselle?”

“I am sure of it. Before doubting a person I have once esteemed, I

wait till their acts openly condemn them. If I have the misfortune to

despise them then, it is because they force me to do so.”

These words were uttered in a significant tone. Eugénie then left Louis

abruptly with a gracious and dignified salutation.

Louis stood looking at her as she went away, admiring her slender

form and the exquisite distinction of her whole person. This sudden

meeting with her seemed like one of those glimpses of the sun that

sometimes occur in the midst of the most violent storms. He thanked

God; he felt happy at her indirect assurance that she still regarded

him with esteem. He asked himself if she did not love him. He did not

dare believe it, but was almost ready to do so. One fear alone remained

in all its strength—the fear of incurring Mr. Smithson’s anger by

co-operating in the conversion of Adams.

Ah! if Louis had not been heartily devoted to his faith, how soon he

would have despatched this troublesome neophyte! But, no; he ought not,

he could not. He consoled himself by repeating Eugénie’s words, which

had struck him in a peculiar manner: _Fais ce que dois, advienne que

pourra_.... “Well,” thought he, “what I ought to do is to enlighten

those who seek the truth.... I yield to a sense of duty. Eugénie is

a Catholic as well as I, and cannot help approving of my course. If

Mr. Smithson is displeased, his daughter, to be consistent with her

principles, must confess that I am right.”

As Louis entered his room, a note was given him from me, imploring him

to come to us as soon as possible.

CHAPTER XXIII.

VICTOR’S DEATH.—PLOTS AGAINST LOUIS.

For ten long months, Victor had suffered from a terrible malady that

never lets go. Every remedy had been tried in vain. His disease was

phthisis of a peculiar kind and of the most alarming character. The two

physicians we consulted could only reply when their patient insisted on

knowing the truth: “Your illness is of an extremely serious nature; but

you are young, and at your age nature often finds unexpected resources

in a time of danger.”

It was impossible to cure him. They could only prolong his life, and

this was the aim of the physicians. By dint of care, they succeeded

in keeping him alive till the beginning of September. Then the

disease, whose ravages we had not realized, suddenly came to a crisis.

Throughout the whole course of his sufferings, I had, in spite of

everything, cherished a secret hope in the depths of my heart. When one

of those favorable turns came peculiar to such complaints, I flattered

myself that he would get well, and abandoned myself to a foolish joy.

This joy, so natural, and yet so unreasonable, gave Victor pain. He

endeavored to moderate it in a thousand ingenious and delicate ways. He

himself was never under any illusion. His illness was fatal: he knew

it, and calmly prepared himself for what he called the great journey.

He was greatly afflicted to see I was not, like himself, preparing for

our separation, the thought of which became more painful in proportion

to the horror with which I regarded it. He tried to banish all my false

hopes, but his efforts were in vain. I clung to them without owning

it. I only gave them up at the time I have arrived at in my sad story.

Then I began to realize the frightful truth, and, as I saw his alarming

symptoms increase, I thought I should die.

Victor at length succeeded in restoring somewhat of calmness to my

soul. With a strength of mind that increased in proportion to the

nearness of that awful moment, he made his final preparations. He

gave himself up to the contemplation of eternal things. His friend,

the good Abbé Merlin, administered the last consolations of religion.

Louis received them with a faith that edified every one, and a joy that

showed how he had profited by his illness to prepare for heaven. He

was already there in spirit, and longed to be there in reality. This

touched me, and I confess, to my great shame, I reproached him in my

excessive grief with some expressions of bitterness. This was the last

sorrow I caused my poor husband. Such reproaches could only come from a

selfish soul. I now blush at the remembrance.

All these necessary steps having been taken, Victor told me I must

send for Louis. As you know, he received my note in the evening. That

very night he arrived. It was high time. We all three passed the night

together talking, praying, and weeping by turns. Victor consoled us. He

even forced himself to express anxiety as to Louis’ affairs. The latter

spoke of them very unwillingly, for his grief overpowered his sense of

love. When Victor learned the trials he was undergoing, he said:

“My friend, I fear they are contriving some new plot against you.

Eugénie loves you; there is no doubt of that in my mind; but does she

love you well enough to withstand all the difficulties that are rising

up around you? I know not. If, with her knowledge of you, she allows

herself to be influenced by people of evil intentions, it seems to me

you will have a right to judge her severely.”

“Even then I could not,” said Louis.

“Your answer does not surprise me. It proves I was right in my

impressions. You love her as much as a good man ought to love. You

even love her too well; for I believe your affection would render you

insensible to the truth rather than blame the object of your love.”

“That is true.”

“I cannot approve of that. It is not right. There is only one

thing, there is only one Being, a noble and well-balanced soul, a

soul thoroughly imbued with piety, allows itself to love above all

things—that thing is truth, that Being is God. Believe me, if Eugénie

allows herself to be alienated from you, it will be a proof she has not

the worth you give her credit for, and also that it is not the will of

God she should become your wife. Well, I will not oppose the indulgence

you feel towards her. I consent to it. Say to yourself she has been

deceived, that she is innocent, but submit to the divine will. Do not

attempt impossibilities to link together the chain God himself breaks,

however dear she may be to you.”

Victor seemed to have recalled all the energy of his manly nature to

utter these words. His firmness and judicious counsel were not lost on

Louis.

“I will follow your advice,” said he; “but promise to pray this sorrow

may be spared me. God has endowed the one I love with a soul so

elevated that it would be easy to make her as pious as an angel.... And

I love her so much!”

“My poor friend! I do not know that I shall be permitted to pray at

once for you in yonder world. If I can, I will pray God you may be

united with her, if this union will render you happy—happy, understand

me, in the Christian sense of the word; that is to say, happy and

better, both of you.”

In the middle of the night, Victor requested me to go into the

next chamber for some papers he wanted. He availed himself of this

opportunity to recommend me to Louis’ care, as I afterwards learned.

“Agnes,” said he, “has exhausted her strength in taking care of me

so many months. Her physical and mental strength are now merely

factitious. It is the very excess of her grief that sustains her. As

soon as I am gone, she will be sensible of her weakness. I fear the

reaction may prove fatal to her. I implore you to take her and her

mother to some place near you in the country. Find them a temporary

residence that is healthy and pleasant. Change of scene and pure

country air will do her more good than anything else, especially if you

add the benefit of your efforts to console her, on which I depend.”

Louis made the required promise.... But these recollections are still

too painful. Alas! they will always be so. You will excuse me from

dwelling on them.

The next day, I lost the companion of my life. That pure soul, so full

of intelligence, sweetness, and energy, took flight for heaven, leaving

me for ever sad and desolate upon earth.... Oh! how happy are those

women who to the very hour of death are permitted by God to retain the

companionship of a husband tenderly loved, and worthy of being so!...

The first moments of overpowering grief had scarcely passed before

that which Victor had foreseen took place. All at once I lost my

apparent strength. I was weighed down with a dull despair. My poor

mother trembled for my life. Throughout the day I sat motionless in an

arm-chair, interested in no person or subject. My lips alone made an

effort from time to time to murmur the words at once so bitter and so

sweet: “O Lord! thou gavest him to me; thou hast taken him away; thy

will be done!” That was my only prayer. I repeated it from morning till

night. Thus lifting my soul heavenward, I found strength to resist the

temptation to rebel which constantly assailed me.

During that sad time, Louis’ sister joined him in unceasing attentions

to me. Louis gave himself entirely up to my service, and notified Mr.

Smithson he should be absent several days longer from the manufactory.

You can realize how generous this was in him. To absent himself at a

time his dearest interests were at stake, and leave the field clear for

his enemies, was making an heroic sacrifice to friendship. It was not

till a subsequent period I fully appreciated it. At that time, I was

wholly absorbed in myself. Extreme grief becomes a kind of passion,

and, like all passions, it renders us selfish.

When Louis at last saw me a little calmer, he told me of Victor’s wish.

“His last request was,” said he, “that you should go into the country

awhile with your mother. The air is purer there, and you will regain

your strength.”

I exclaimed against the proposition. I declared I would not leave the

house in which Victor died—where everything recalled his presence.

Louis insisted, urged on by the physicians, who declared the change

indispensable.

“Victor himself implores you through me to consent,” said he. “Remember

you will be still obeying him in so doing.”

I ended by yielding to their persuasions. “But where shall I go?” said

I.

“To St. M——, where you will be near me. My sister went there

yesterday, and found you pleasant lodgings. You can easily go that far

with your mother and sister.”

We went there the next day. It was Louis who made all the arrangements,

and with how much solicitude and affection I need not say. At length

he left us to resume his duties at the mill. The last favor I begged

of him was to come and see me often, but not to mention to any one

the place of my retirement. Like all who are in real affliction,

solitude alone pleased me. The first time for a week, Louis’ thoughts,

after leaving me, recurred to the subjects that had absorbed his mind

previous to Victor’s death. He began to be alarmed. He wondered if

Eugénie had not forgotten him, if she really loved him, if Mr. Smithson

was disposed to regard him with more or with less favor, and if Albert

had not profited by his absence to injure him in the estimation of

Eugénie’s family. But he could only form conjectures as to all this.

Now that these events have passed away, I can seize all the details at

a glance. I shall therefore tell you many things Louis was necessarily

ignorant of when he returned to the manufactory. He would have trembled

had he been aware of them. He had scarcely left his post in order to

be with Victor during his last moments, when his enemies, thinking the

time propitious, resolved to profit by his absence to effect his ruin.

They all set to work at once.

The deceitful Adams, who had sought to be enlightened as to his

religious doubts, went around telling everybody the engineer had

convinced him of the falseness of his religion, which he resolved to

abjure, and only waited for Louis’ return. People began by laughing at

what he said. They had no great opinion of the fellow. They suspected

his connection with Durand, who was regarded with fear. Some even

thought it was all a trick. But Adams returned to the charge; he spoke

with an air of conviction, he seemed changed. To carry out the scheme,

he apparently broke off with his former friend, Durand.

All these things were repeated from one to another till they reached

Mr. Smithson’s ears. He had been obliged to superintend the workmen

during Louis’ absence from the manufactory. Already inclined to be

suspicious of the engineer, and ignorant of the ties that bound him to

Victor, Mr. Smithson interiorly accused him of first manifesting an

ultra, I may say, fanatical zeal, and then falling into an indifference

and carelessness unworthy of a consistent man. “Because one of his

friends is ill,” he said, “is that a sufficient reason for abandoning

his post, leaving me overwhelmed with work, and interrupting the

school he had begun?... And all this without making any arrangement

beforehand!... The man is inconsistent!”

Mr. Smithson was therefore unfavorably disposed towards Louis, when, to

complete his dissatisfaction, came the news, at first doubtful, then

certain, of Adams’ intended abjuration. He became so angry that he

could not contain himself, though generally so capable of self-control.

The interests of his national religion were at stake. He at once became

furious, and made no effort to conceal it.

Mme. Smithson and Albert of course took Mr. Smithson’s part against

Louis. He was berated as a man of no discretion, deceitful, fanatical,

and a Jesuit in disguise. Mme. Smithson was one of those people who

boldly say: “I don’t think much of a person who changes his religion!”

As if it were not merely reasonable for a man to give up error for

truth when the truth is revealed to him. Albert was influenced by

motives you are already aware of. He was triumphant. He had never

expected such success from so simple a trick. Circumstances had indeed

favored him but too well. Seeing Mr. Smithson in such a frame of mind,

he had no doubts of his dismissing Louis as soon as he returned.

But his joy was strangely diminished by an unexpected incident. They

were discussing the affair one evening in the _salon_. “Excuse me,

father,” said Eugénie, “for meddling with what does not concern me, but

you know I always was the advocate of a bad cause.”

Every one looked up at this unexpected interruption. Eugénie was not

a woman to be intimidated when she foresaw opposition: rather, the

contrary. She continued, without being troubled in the least: “I find

a great many are disposed to attack M. Louis, but no one thinks of

defending him. It were to be wished some one would be his defender,

though I do not say his conduct is irreproachable.”

“Very far from that,” said Mr. Smithson.

“But if he is not innocent, is he as culpable as he may have appeared?

What is he accused of? He has been absent several days from the mill.

This adds greatly to your labors, my dear father, but his absence is

justifiable to a certain degree. Do you know M. Louis’ history?”

“As well as you, I suppose, child.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Has he related it to you?”

“No; Fanny took pains to do that. Fanny is at once curious and a

gossip.”

“My cousin is very severe towards so devoted a servant. Is she

indulgent only to the culpable?”

This ill-timed interruption gave Eugénie a glimpse of light. “There is

an understanding between them,” she said to herself, “and that explains

many things.” She continued, addressing her father: “M. Louis made

an attempt at his own life. He was drowning, when a brave man and an

invalid—M. Barnier—at the risk of his own life, threw himself into

the river, and saved him. This was the origin of their friendship,

which does honor to M. Louis and to the person so devoted to him. This

M. Barnier is dying to-day.”

“Who told you so, my child?” asked Mr. Smithson.

“The newspapers from town allude to it. M. Barnier is a well-known man,

and esteemed by his very enemies themselves. It is to be with him M.

Louis is gone. Does not such a motive justify his absence?”

Mr. Smithson had attentively listened to what his daughter said. If we

except what related to religious subjects, he was an impartial and even

kindly disposed man. “With such a reason for his absence,” he replied,

“I shall cease to regard it as inexcusable. Nevertheless, he ought to

have made me aware of what had taken place. He simply said he was going

to stay with a sick friend: that was not a sufficient explanation. What

I dislike in the man is his dissimulation.”

“I acknowledge there may be some reason for distrust,” resumed Eugénie,

“but he has given no proofs of duplicity since he came here that I am

aware of. He certainly has done nothing without consulting you, father.”

“He did, to be sure, propose several things he wished to do; but did he

reveal his real aim, his ultimate object?”

“Had he any?”

“Had he any?... The Adams affair proves it. The evening-school and the

library were only founded to propagate Catholicism.”

“With what object?”

“The aim of these enthusiasts is always the same. They wish to impart

their belief to others, that they may afterwards exercise authority

over their disciples. Louis and the _curé_ are linked together. Their

project is to make my manufactory like a convent, where they can reign

in spite of me. But I will settle that matter.”

“And you will do right, uncle,” said Albert. “There is no tyranny more

artful and more encroaching than that of the priesthood.”

“I did not know my cousin detested the clergy to such a degree,” said

Eugénie, with an air of mockery and disdain which convinced Albert

he had made a fresh blunder. “I thought, on the contrary, you had a

sincere respect for priests. It seems I was deceived....”

“Enough on this point,” said Mr. Smithson. “I will see Adams, and

learn from him what has occurred. And I will speak to the engineer

accordingly when he returns.”

This conversation took place in the evening. Mme. Smithson was present.

She did not speak, but was extremely irritated. Eugénie little thought

she had caused her mother as great an affliction as she had ever

experienced in her life. For ten, perhaps fifteen, years, Mme. Smithson

had clung to the idea of a match between her daughter and nephew. She

had taken comfort in the thought of uniting the two beings she loved

best on earth. Besides, it was a good way, and the only one in her

power, of securing to Albert a fortune he had need of; for the career

he had embraced, and the tastes he had imbibed, made it necessary he

should be wealthy, which was by no means the case. This plan till

lately had been confined to Mme. Smithson’s own breast; but, since

Albert’s arrival, she had ventured to allude to it in her conversations

with him. The latter responded with enthusiastic gratitude, expressing

an ardent desire to have the proposed union realized. Alas! from the

beginning there had been one difficulty which fretted Mme. Smithson.

Would her husband approve of her scheme? As Albert approached manhood,

this consent became more and more doubtful. Mr. Smithson treated his

nephew kindly, but had no great opinion of him, and did not like him.

How overcome this obstacle? There was only one way: Eugénie herself

must desire the marriage. Mr. Smithson never opposed his daughter,

and would then overlook his antipathy to the object of her choice.

Things were having a very different tendency. Mme. Smithson had long

tried to hide the fact from herself, but she must at last acknowledge

it: Eugénie manifested no partiality for her cousin. This evening’s

occurrence banished all illusion. She not only saw Eugénie had not

the least thought of marrying Albert, but she suspected her of loving

another, ... a man Mme. Smithson could no longer endure. He had in her

eyes three faults, any one of which would have set her against him:

he was her dear nephew’s rival, he had no property, and he was grave

and pious to a degree that could not fail to be repulsive to a trivial

woman and a half-way Christian like her. To complete her despair,

Albert came secretly to see her that very same evening.

“Aunt,” said he, “our affairs are getting on badly!... Confess that I

had more penetration than you were willing to allow.”

“What! what! what do you mean? Do you think Eugénie loves that

spendthrift, that bigot?... Nonsense! she only wishes to tease you.”

“I am of a different opinion. I have long been aware of her fancy for

him. What she said in his favor this evening was very judicious and

moderate, but there was in the tone of her voice, ... in her look, a

something I could not mistake. For the first time, she betrayed her

feelings. I tell you she loves him!”

“Why, that would be dreadful!”

“I foresaw it.”

“Foresaw!—such a thing?”

“Eugénie is romantic, and the rogue puts on the air of a hero of

romance.”

“Set your heart at rest, Albert. I promise to watch over your

interests. I assure you, in case of need, I will bring your uncle

himself to your aid.”

“I will talk to Eugénie to-morrow morning,” she said to herself. “I

shall never believe in such presumption till she confesses it herself.”

The next morning, Mme. Smithson went, full of anxiety, to her

daughter’s chamber. Eugénie was that very moment thinking of Louis.

The more she examined her own heart, the more clearly she saw herself

forced to acknowledge her esteem for him. She had inwardly condemned

him many times, but had as often found her suspicions were groundless.

Without showing the least partiality for Louis, she could not help

seeing he was intelligent, energetic, and sincerely pious. She even

acknowledged that, of all the men she had ever met, not one was to be

compared to him; he was superior to them all in every respect. From

this, it was not a long step to confess him worthy of her affection.

But he—did he love her?... Not a word, not a sign, had escaped him

to indicate such a thing, and yet there was in his bearing towards

her, in the tone of his voice, and in the value he attached to her

good opinion, a something that assured her she had made a profound

impression on him. But, then, why this coldness so rigorously

maintained?... He was poor—and through his own fault—while she was

rich. His coldness perhaps resulted from extreme delicacy.

Eugénie cut short her reflections by repeating: “Does he love me?... It

may be. Do I love him?... I dare not say no. But we are in a peculiar

position. If I find him, at the end of the account, worthy of being

my husband, doubtless I should have to make the advances! But I like

originality in everything. My father alone excites my fears. M. Louis

would not be his choice. Why does he show himself so zealous a Catholic

at present? Why not wait till he is married—if married we ever are?

Then he could be as devoted to the church as he pleases.”

Mme. Smithson was hardly to be recognized when she entered her

daughter’s room. She was generally affable and smiling, but now her

face was lowering and agitated. She was evidently very nervous, as

was usually the case when she had some disagreeable communication to

make to her daughter. Eugénie at once divined what was passing in her

mother’s heart. She was careful, however, not to aid her in unburdening

herself.

After speaking of several things of no importance, Mme. Smithson

assumed an unconcerned air—a sign of her extreme embarrassment—and

broached the subject with a boldness peculiar to timid people when they

see there is no way of receding.

“I must confess that was a strange notion of yours last evening.”

“What notion do you refer to, mother?” said Eugénie, in a tone at once

dignified and ingenuous. She felt the storm was coming. As usual on

such occasions, she laid aside the familiar _thou_ for the respectful

_you_. There was a spice of mischief in her tactics which I do not

intend to applaud. She thus redoubled her mother’s embarrassment, and

by the politeness of her manner increased her hesitation.

“What notion do I refer to?... You need not ask that. You know

well enough what I allude to.... Yes; why should you, without any

obligation, set yourself up to defend a man who is no relation of ours

or even one of our friends, but a mere employé of your father’s; one

who suits him certainly, but who is likely to cause trouble in the

house; ... who is, in short, a dangerous man?...”

“You astonish me to the last degree, mother! I never, no, never should

have suspected M. Louis of dangerous designs, or that he even had the

power to disturb us.”

“Raillery, my dear, is in this case quite out of place. What secret

motive have you for undertaking his defence?”

“I? I have none. What motive could I have?”

“Then, why take sides against us?”

“Why, I have not taken sides against you!”

“How can you deny it?”

“I do deny it, mother, with your permission. My father imputed

intentions to M. Louis which perhaps he never had. I merely observed it

would be more just to wait for proofs before condemning him. That is

all, and a very small affair.”

“Wait for proofs before condemning him, do you say?... Well, he has

them. Adams has confessed everything.... He acknowledges that M. Louis

endeavored to convert him, lent him books, taught him the catechism,

and, what was worse, dwelt a great deal on hell as a place he could

not fail to go to if he, Adams, remained a Protestant. The poor fellow

has not recovered from his terror yet!... Your father has talked to

him very kindly, given him good advice, mingled with kind reproaches.

Adams was affected, and ended by saying he never wished to see M. Louis

again; and he did a lucky thing!”

“It seems to me that Adams is either a simpleton or a hypocrite.”

“Eugénie, that is altogether too much!”

“I do not see anything very astonishing in what I have said. Please

listen to me a moment, mother. To hesitate between two creeds, without

being able to decide on either, seems to me a proof of weakness. But

if, on the contrary, Adams invented this story of his conversion in

order to yield at a favorable moment and gain the good-will of my

father more than ever, would not this show a duplicity and artfulness

that could only belong to a hypocrite?...”

“Adams could not have invented such a thing. It would have rendered him

liable to dismissal.”

“I beg your pardon, mother. Adams did not risk anything. The course he

has taken proves it. And that is precisely what makes me distrust him.”

“How can you impute such motives to anybody!... Adams has renounced his

intention, because he was convinced by your father’s arguments. He has

behaved like an honest man!”

“Excuse me, mother; we are in more danger than ever of not

understanding each other. Why! you seem to rejoice that Adams has

returned to his errors! You appear to think his course very natural,

and to approve of it!”

“Yes, I do approve of it; people ought not to change their religion.”

“You might as well say a person ought not to acknowledge his error when

he is mistaken. I am by no means of your opinion, though I am not very

religious.”

“_A propos_ of religion, my dear, you seem to have taken a strange

turn. You have grown so rigorous as to astonish me; there is not

an ultra notion you do not approve of. You have completely changed

since.... But I will not make you angry.”

“Since M. Louis came here?... A pretty idea. But I am not surprised.”

“You said it yourself, but it is true. Since that man came here, you

have changed every way. I know not why or wherefore, but it is a fact.

Your cousin himself has observed it, and it grieves him. You are no

longer towards him as you once were. You keep him at a distance. You

are not lively as you used to be. You only talk of things serious

enough to put one asleep.”

“It is nearly ten years since I was brought in such close contact with

my cousin as now. I was very young then. I have grown older and more

sensible. Why has not he done the same?”

“Your sarcasm is malicious and unmerited. Albert is a charming fellow.”

“Oh! I agree with you! But this very fact injures him in my estimation.

A charming fellow is one who requires an hour to dress; is skilled in

paying a multitude of compliments he does not mean; has a petty mind

that only takes interest in trifles; in short, a useless being it is

impossible to rely on. When Albert came, he seemed to be conscious

of the absurdity of being a charming fellow. He tried to put on a

semblance of gravity, but it did not last long. Once more the proverb

held good: _Chasser le naturel, il revient au galop_.”[197]

“Wonderful, my dear. You have every qualification for a _dévote_:

especially one characteristic—maliciousness. Poor Albert! how you have

set him off! Happily, there is not a word of truth in all you have

said. He a man on whom you cannot rely! He has a heart of gold.”

“I do not dispute the goodness of his heart. I have never put it to the

proof.”

“What a wicked insinuation! How dreadful it is to always believe the

worst of everybody.”

“Well, let it be so: he has a kind heart!... But is there any depth to

him?”

“As much as is necessary. This would be a sad world if we were always

obliged to live with moody people like some one I know of. I really

believe he is your beau ideal.”

“I do not say that; but, if he is really what he appears to be, he

merits my good opinion. I wish all I live with resembled him.”

“Well done! A little more, and you will tell me he is the realization

of all your dreams.”

“I do not know him well enough to accord him all your words seem to

imply.”

“At all events, you know him well enough to take an interest in him,

and much more than would suit your father.... Your cousin even was

scandalized at your daring to defend him against your father, who had

good reason to blame him.”

“My cousin would do well to attend to his own affairs, and not meddle

with mine. If he came here to watch me, sneer at me, and give me

advice, he had better have remained in Paris.”

“He came here hoping to find the friend of his childhood glad to see

him, and ready to show him the affection he merits. Everybody does not

judge him as severely as you do. I know many girls who....”

“Who would be glad to marry him! Well, they may have him!”

“That is too much! The son of my sister whom I love with all my heart!

A child whom I brought up and love almost as much as I do you!”

“But, mother, I am not displeased because you love him. I do not

dislike him. I wish him well, and would do him all the good in my

power. But when I make choice of a husband, I shall choose one with

qualities Albert will never possess.”

“I have suspected it for a long time. Yes; I thought long ago, seeing

the turn your mind was taking, that, when you married, it would be

foolishly.”

“What do you mean by foolishly?”

“Marrying a man without property, or one with eccentric notions, or

some prosy creature of more or less sincerity. I am very much afraid

you are infatuated about an individual who has all these defects

combined. Fortunately.... You understand me....”

“What, mother?”

“Yes; we shall watch over your interests, your father and I, and if

you are disposed to make a foolish match, like one that occurs to me,

we shall know how to prevent it. We shall not hesitate if obliged to

render you happy in spite of yourself.”

“Render me happy?... At all events, it would not be by forcing me to

marry Albert.”

“Anyhow, you shall marry no one else.... It is I who say so, and your

father will show you he is of my opinion.”

Upon this, Mme. Smithson went out, violently shutting the door after

her. Like all people of weak character, she must either yield or fall

into a rage. It was beyond her ability to discuss or oppose anything

calmly.

It was all over! All her plans were overthrown! She must bid farewell

to her dearest hopes! She must no longer think of retaining Albert

and sending for his mother—for Mme. Smithson’s desires went as

far as that! Her dream was to unite the two families by marrying

Eugénie and Albert. Instead of that, what a perspective opened before

her!—a marriage between her daughter and Louis, which roused all her

antipathies at once! She was beside herself at the bare thought of

seeing herself connected with a son-in-law she could not endure, and

who was no less repulsive to Mr. Smithson.... Her maternal heart was

kind when no one contradicted her, but there was in its depths, as

often happens in weak natures, a dash of spitefulness. Having returned

to her chamber, Mme. Smithson began to reflect. She seldom gave herself

up to reflection, and then only when she was troubled, as is the case

with some people. As might be supposed, she was too excited to reflect

advantageously.

“Oh! oh!” she said to herself, “Eugénie dares resist me the only time I

ever asked her to obey! She despises Albert. She speaks scornfully of

him! And that is not sufficient: she carries her audacity so far as to

sing the praises of a man I detest!... See what it is to be indulgent

to one’s children! The day comes when, for a mere caprice, they tread

under foot what was dearest to you.... Well, since she will do nothing

for me, I will do nothing for her.... She rejects Albert. I will have

the other one driven away.... Since that meddler came, everything has

gone wrong here.... What a nuisance that man is! If he had not come

here, everything would have gone on as I wished.... I will go in search

of my husband. It will be easy to have the engineer sent off, after

committing so many blunders. When he is gone, we shall have to endure

my daughter’s ill-humor, but everything comes to an end in this world.

The time will come when, realizing her folly, Eugénie will listen to

reason.”

The interview between Mr. Smithson and his wife took place a little

while after. What was said I never knew. Mme. Smithson alluded to it

once or twice at a later day, but merely acknowledged she did very

wrong. The remembrance was evidently painful, and she said no more.

Eugénie at once foresaw this private interview between her parents. The

conversation she had just had with her mother only served to enlighten

her more fully as to the state of her feelings. Forced to express her

opinion of Albert and Louis, she had spoken from her heart. She was

herself in a measure astonished at seeing so clearly she did not love

Albert—that there was a possibility of loving Louis—that perhaps

she already loved him.... And she also comprehended more clearly all

the difficulties such an attachment would meet with. Her mother’s

opposition had hitherto been doubtful. It was now certain, and the

consequence was to be feared.

“My mother is so much offended,” she said to herself, “that she will

try to unburden her mind to my father at once, and perhaps influence

him against me. Before the day is over, she will tell him all I said,

and the thousand inferences she has drawn from it. This interview fills

me with alarm! I wish I knew what they will decide upon, if they come

to any decision....”

Eugénie tried in vain to get some light on the point, but was not able

to obtain much. The interview took place. Mr. Smithson seemed vexed and

thoughtful after his wife left the office. Mme. Smithson went directly

to give the porter orders to send the engineer to her husband as soon

as he arrived. Louis had sent word the evening before he should return

the following day.

TO BE CONTINUED.

SONNET.

THE RUINS OF EMANIA (NEAR ARMAGH).

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

Why seek we thus the living ‘mid the dead?

Beneath yon mound—within yon circle wide—

Emania’s palace, festive as a bride

For centuries six, had found its wormy bed

When Patrick lifted here his royal head,

And round him gazed. Perhaps the Apostle sighed

Even then, to note the fall of mortal pride—

Full fourteen hundred years since then have fled!

Then, too, old Ulster’s hundred kings were clay;

Then, too, the Red Branch warriors slept forlorn;

Autumn, perhaps, as now, a pilgrim gray,

Her red beads counted on the berried thorn,

Making her rounds; while from the daisied sod

The undiscountenanced lark upsoared, and praised her God.

APPEAL TO WORKINGMEN.

FROM THE FRENCH OF LEON GAUTIER IN THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

DISCOURSE PRONOUNCED JANUARY 13, 1873, TO INAUGURATE THE LECTURES

INTENDED FOR THE WORKING-CLASSES.[198]

TO-DAY we inaugurate the lectures specially consecrated to workingmen.

We are full of joyous hopes, and believe that this work of light

will be at the same time a work of reconciliation, of love, and of

peace. The cross, which we have placed conspicuously in all our places

of reunion—the cross, that we elevate and display everywhere as a

magnificent standard—the cross, that we will never consent to hide,

indicates clearly what is our faith and what is our aim. We wish to

enlighten your understandings, dilate your hearts, direct your wills

in the way of the good, the beautiful, and the true. In a word, we

wish to conquer you for Christ, and we say it here with a frankness

which profoundly abhors all cunning of speech. You will give us credit

for sincerity, which you have always loved; for, as has been said by

a great contemporary orator,[199] “The people are not deceived; they

feel when they are approached with faith in them and in their eminent

dignity.”

We come, then, to you with this cross of Constantine, which has

converted the world. This glorious sign we have surrounded with rays,

to show you that light proceeds from Christianity, as the stream flows

from its source, and the beams radiate from a star. If possible, we

would have adopted as a flag the beautiful cross in the catacomb of

S. Pontian, from which spring roses—symbols of joy. We would have

chosen it, to show you that in Christ is found not only the repose of

the enlightened understanding, but also the repose, the joy, and the

alleluia of the satisfied heart. It is by this sign we will conquer.

In this first lecture, which will serve as an humble preface to the

discourses of so many eminent orators, we intend only to take up the

working question, to tell you our entire thought on the subject,

to open to you our whole heart. Do not hope to hear an academic

speech; do not expect those vain compliments to which you have been

accustomed from flatterers who did not love you. We say at first and

without circumlocution that between Christian society and the working

world there exists to-day a certain misunderstanding, and it is this

misunderstanding we would wish to dissipate, and we beg of the divine

Workman of Nazareth to direct our words, blessed by him, to the

understanding and heart of the workmen of Paris.

In the first part of this discourse, which will be brief, we will say

what we are; in the second, what we wish; and in the third, we will

reply to certain objections to the church which are current among

workingmen, and cause the deplorable misunderstanding from which we

wish to deliver your minds and hearts, equally oppressed. It is time

that the truth should free you.

I.

In order that you may better understand what we are, we wish to

commence by showing you what we are not.

We are not politicians; this we desire to declare openly. Never, never

will there be pronounced in this precinct one word that may even

remotely touch upon our old or recent discords. We will never deserve

to be called partisans. Whatever may be our intimate convictions (and

we have the right to have them), we only wish to be and we will only

be Christians. We suppose there may be in the bosom of all the avowed

parties sincere Catholics who are by no means _independents_. When we

tread upon the threshold of her basilicas, the church, which rises

before us, does not ask if we are monarchists or republicans, but only

if we believe in the eternal Word, who created heaven and earth, who

became man in the crib of Bethlehem, and who saved us on a cross. Thus

will we do, and the only popular song you will hear in this place will

be the Credo; come, come, and sing it with us.

Thank God, we do not belong to the group, too numerous, of pretended

conservatives, who only see in the labor question a painful

preoccupation which might trouble the calm of their digestion; who do

not wish to impose upon themselves any real sacrifice, and are easily

astonished that the working-classes complain of their sufferings. We

are not like the fashionable and delicate egoists who for several

centuries have given the fatal example of indifference, of doubt,

and of negation in religion, who have followed Voltaire, who have

wickedly laughed in the face of outraged truth, who have torn God from

the heart of the workman, and who nevertheless persist in affirming

that “religion is good for the people”—men of refinement, who to-day

edit journals full of talent, where on the first page is offered

ultra-conservative articles, and on the second ultra-obscene romances.

No; we are not of this class. Away with those sceptics whose fears make

them pretend to have the faith! Away with those who doubt the people,

and who do not love them!

We are not of those who are led to you by this vile fear or by a still

viler interest; we are not of those who see in you an armed force

before which they must tremble, or an electoral majority before whom

they must kneel. We will never come to solicit your votes, and we are

bent upon serving you with absolute disinterestedness. Briefly, we are

for you and will always be your friends and servants, but will never

condescend to court you. Besides, the victory which we desire is not

that which can be gained by force, consequently we do not count on

force. We only wish to win your understandings with our faith, your

hearts with our love.

We do not place the golden age in a past too superstitiously loved.

Whatever affection I may feel in my heart for those dear middle ages,

to which I have consecrated all my studies and all my life, I do not

find them sufficiently Christian to be the only ideal. We know that

those centuries, so differently judged, were the theatre of a gigantic

struggle between paganism, more and more conquered, and the church,

more and more victorious; and we draw a fundamental distinction

between the chivalry that so heroically defended the truth and the

feudality that did it such injury. We do not ignore the fact that

paganism, in dying, left to the Christian ages, as a frightful legacy,

the traditions of slavery, impurity, and violence; and we confess that

Christianity could not in one day decapitate the hundred-headed hydra.

If we regard especially the workmen’s guilds or corporations, we will

go so far as to own that their organization, so admirably Christian

in some respects, nevertheless left too much room for certain abuses

that we hate; and, as a decisive example, we assert that the material

condition of the members was not then what a Christian heart would wish

to-day. We have the religion, not the superstition, of the middle ages;

of that epoch so unworthily calumniated we preserve all the elements

truly Christian, and reject the others. We recognize in that rude and

laborious age the dawn, the beautiful dawn, of Catholic civilization

so scandalously interrupted by the Renaissance. In those centuries, so

slighted and misunderstood, we salute above all the cycle of the saints.

We ardently love the sublime period when S. Benedict gave to a hundred

thousand men and to twenty generations the order and signal to clear

the minds and the fields, equally sterile; when S. Francis conversed

with the birds of the air, reconciled all nature with humanity

Christianized, and gave to his contemporaries the love of “our lady,

poverty!” We love the period made joyful by the death of slavery under

the font of the church; when all the institutions of the state and of

the family were energetically Catholic; when royalty was represented by

a S. Louis, love by a S. Elizabeth, science by a S. Thomas of Aquinas.

But our soul has still stronger wings, and would fly still higher. We

wish still more, we wish still better, and we will build up the future

with two kinds of materials—with the past undoubtedly, but also with

our desires, which are vast.

We are not of those who ingenuously think the world at present is

organized as one would wish. Doubtless there are in the working-class

of our time illegitimate desires, guilty jealousies, unrighteous

thirsts; but we also know all that the world of laborers can offer to

the eyes of God, of cruel sufferings, of noble sighs, and of honest

tears. God preserve us from ever laughing at one of those griefs,

even should they be merited! On the contrary, we hope that Christian

society will one day come, through peace and prayer, the sacraments and

love, to a better disposition, a more profound pacification, a happier

distribution of riches, a wider-spread prosperity, and to something

more resembling the reign of God. But, alas! we are convinced that

the definitive repartition and equality will only be consummated in

eternity. Those who do not believe in a future life will never see

their desire of infinite justice satisfied—they condemn themselves to

this punishment.

We do not despise the work of the hands; far from it, we seek to

place the mechanic close to the artist. For centuries, there have

been Pyrenees between art and industry; these Pyrenees we wish to

remove, and we will succeed. In truth, the workman is an august being;

and the title of his nobility will be easily found in the depths of

faith and of theology. Listen: the eternal type, the adorable type,

of the workman is the Heavenly Father, the _Faber divinus_, who, not

content with making obedient matter spring from nothing, like a

sublime goldsmith chiselled it into a splendid jewel. Beauty, Goodness,

personal and living Truth—such, to the letter, was the first Workman.

God joined, framed, hewed, cemented, carved the whole universe, the

firmament, the stars. His gracious and magnificent hand, armed with an

invisible chisel, is discovered in every part of the creation which

has been wonderfully sculptured by this marvellous Workman. Workmen

of every condition, here contemplate the work of your Model, of your

Master, of your divine Patron. The sombre forests, the transparent

foliage, the flowers whose wonders are only revealed by the microscope,

the mountains, the ocean, the infinite depths—all, all were made by

the great Workman.

Incomparable Artificer! he conceived the plan of all these beings in

His eternal Word, and one day, to realize this design, he pronounced

these words: “Be they!” and they were. But it was not enough to show

himself the workman; God feared, if I may be allowed so to speak, that

his calling might be despised; and he desired so truly to be a workman

that of a God he made himself a carpenter as well as man. He chose a

noble position, perfectly characteristic, and, with his divine hands,

sawed, planed, polished, worked the wood that in the first hour of

the world he had worked in the design of the creation. Workmen, my

brethren, it is not a fable, it is not a symbol: Jesus, the Son of God,

was the apprentice, the companion, the workman, the carpenter; and the

venerable monuments of tradition show him to us making ploughs, perhaps

crosses. What can I not say to you of the Holy Ghost, considered as

the Workman of the spiritual world, which he had really cemented,

hewed, and framed? What can I not explain of the beautiful realities

of symbolism? With regret I leave this workshop of the church, and now

content myself with the workshop of the creation, and with that of

Nazareth.

But you question me more earnestly, and ask what I think of the

contemporary workman. And I reply that, notwithstanding his faults and

errors, I feel for him a great love, invincibly aroused by Christ. Yes;

I close my eyes, I abstract myself. I forget so many ignoble flames, so

much blood, the pure blood so sacrilegiously shed. I wish to separate

my thoughts from so many ruins, so many scandals. I come to you, pagan

workman, rebellious to God, and, in the midst of your rebellious and

Satanic orgies, I approach you, who formerly were baptized, and place

my hand upon your heart, that I may not despair. Your mind is darkened,

your will misled; but there are yet some pulsations which allow me

still to hope, and I willingly repeat the words of that great bishop

who has devoted so much time to the social question: “The people love

that which is beautiful, they understand what is great; know that they

have high aspirations, and that they seek to rise.” And again: “The

workman of our day has eliminated the generous ideas from the Gospel,

and yet borrows from Christianity his noble and holy sentiments.”

Nothing is truer; if chemistry could analyze souls, what Christian

elements would be found in those of workmen! I readily see in each the

admirable material of one of those poor men so powerfully sketched

by Victor Hugo. He speaks of a miserable fisherman on the sea-shore,

who already has five children, perishing from hunger; when one day at

market, he sees and adopts two orphans poorer than he, and thus he

reasons: “We have five children, these will make seven; we will mingle

them together, and they will climb at night on our knees. They will

live, and will be brother and sister to the five others. When God sees

that we must feed this little boy and this little girl with the others,

he will make us catch more fish, that is all!” Workmen of Paris, read

these lines; they are worth more than those of the _Année terrible_,

and paint you exactly. You are capable of this sublime devotion, and I

recall you to the true nobility of your nature.

You know now what we are not, and I think that we have never failed for

an instant to be truly sincere. On the contrary, we have designedly

multiplied all the difficulties with perfect frankness. It is scarcely

necessary to add that we are not of those who disdain the social and

labor questions, and who, while hiding themselves in the graceful

domain of fancy, repeat with Alfred de Musset:

“If two names by chance mingle in my song,

They will always be Ninette or Ninon.”

This charming indifference is but a form of selfishness. Let us go

further, and although in our quality of Catholics (the only nobility,

the only title to which we are really attached) we place a higher

estimate on the future life than the present, we do not think only of

the heavenly destiny of the workman. For more than eighteen hundred

years, the church has not ceased for an instant to occupy herself with

the temporal condition of all the working-classes. In her firmament,

there are fourteen magnificent constellations, which are called the

seven corporal works of mercy, and the seven spiritual. She has made

them all shine on the brow of the workman, and it is for him, above

all, that she preserves the light. This example of our mother, the

church, we always wish to imitate. We know, besides, and it is a

powerful argument, that misery is a poor counsellor, and, if it is

badly accepted, turns souls from duty and eternity.

Therefore, we declare a mortal war against want and misery, and it is

thus that, in ameliorating the earth, we hope to prepare heaven.

We wish at this moment our heart were an open book, written in large

characters, and readable for all. Our brothers, the workmen, would see

that we do not blindly accuse them of all the crimes and mistakes of

modern society, and that we very well know how to comment severely on

the other classes. They would there read the programme of our work,

as recently sketched by a great bishop of the holy church: “We should

believe in the people, hope in them, love them.” For you must not

imagine that alms will here suffice, and that the people will accept

them; they exact all our heart, our esteem, our respect. He who does

not respect the workman can do nothing. Thus, this doctrine of respect

for the workman, the truly Christian doctrine, is the base upon which

the Catholic Circle of Workingmen has erected its edifice: may God

prosper and bless it!

Ask us now with frankness what we are, what is our faith, and listen

well to our reply, which will not be less sincere.

We believe in one only God, the supreme and sovereign Workman, whom we

do not confound with his work; the work is divine, but it is not God.

Beyond the world, above the world, in an inaccessible region, lives

and reigns from everlasting to everlasting the majesty of God, the

Infinite and Absolute, the Justice and Mercy, the Good, the True, and

the Beautiful, living and personal, the eternal Providence, who watches

over the workmen of all races and of all times. There are among you

some who refuse to this God the free adhesion of their faith, and it is

this negation which we come here to combat with the arms of reason and

of light. All depends upon your faith; even though you may be atheists,

we will love you, but, alas! you will not return our love, and the

reconciliation so ardently desired will not be easily realized; for you

can only be dissolved in love, and God is love.

We believe, then, in God the Creator, and we bow before him with

the simple and magnificent faith of the humble stone-cutter of whom

Lamartine speaks, and who one day said to our great poet, “I do not

know how other men are made; but, as for me, I cannot see, I do not say

a star, but even an ant, the leaf of a tree, a grain of sand, without

asking who made it; and the reply is, God. I understand it well, for,

before being, it was not; therefore, it could not make itself.” I

quote these beautiful words with great joy under the roof of a chapel

especially consecrated to workmen. Meditate upon them, workmen, who

listen to me; and, if you are republicans, respect, love, believe in

what this republican of 1848 respected, loved, and believed. Then the

workman believed in God; this time must return, and for this necessary

work we will expend our time, our strength, our life. But it is not

enough to believe in God; we must render to the Creator the act of the

creature, and offer him respect, homage, confidence, prayer, and love.

Blessed be this little chapel of _Jésus-Ouvrier_, if this night one of

these sentiments will be offered by one of the souls who are here and

listen to me.

We also believe in the Son of God, the Word, the interior Speech,

the creative Word of the Father, and we affirm that this Word, at a

determined moment of history, came down on our earth that sin had

stained, and that had to be purified. To arrive at God, who is absolute

purity, we must be white or whitened. Are we white of ourselves? Look

into your souls, and answer. Christ, then, came to suffer, to expiate,

to die for us all, and especially for all workmen, past, present, and

to come. Such is the admirable doctrine of the solidarity of expiation;

and it is here that Jesus is again the type of workmen. Oh! who can

complain of work, when God for thirty years submitted to the rigorous

law of manual labor! Who can complain of suffering, when he bore the

weight of all the sufferings of the body and of the human soul! Who

can complain of loneliness and abandonment, when this God was betrayed

by his tenderest friends, and abandoned by all except his mother, who

remained standing at the foot of the cross! Who can complain of dying

in solitude, in grief, and in shame, on the pallet of a garret or the

bed of a hospital, when he, the Creator of so many millions of suns and

of the universe, gave us the example of the most cruel death, after

having offered us as model the most wretched life! Ah! they had reason

to decree the suppression of the crucifix in the hospitals and schools;

for a true workman cannot look at the crucifix without being moved to

the bottom of his soul, without extending to it his arms, without being

profoundly consoled, without crying, “Behold my Master, my Example, and

my Father!”

We believe that Christianity is contained in these words, which we

should ponder: “Imitation of Christ,” and, in particular, “Imitation

of Jesus the workman.” It is by that means we will be led to give

a place to private virtues, which our adversaries do not wish to

accord to us. Nowadays it is fashionable among workmen and others to

repeat this ill-sounding proposition, which is an exact summary of

Victor Hugo’s last work: that “Society is bad, and man is good.” Do

not believe it; man is an intelligent, free, responsible being, who

can, when he wishes, and with the aid of God, conquer the evil in

him, and do good. As society is only a composition of men, it follows

and will ever be that, if each one of us becomes purer, more humble,

more charitable, better, society will itself become less savage,

more enlightened, better organized, every way improved. In political

economy, we cannot too highly exalt the _rôle_ of private virtues.

It can be demonstrated mathematically, and it will soon be shown, that

everything socially springs from sacrifice. If you wish to know here

what distinguishes the Catholics from their enemies, I will tell you

very simply that they place duty before right, and that the enemies of

the church place right before duty. Certainly, we believe in right as

strongly as you can; but we make it the logical consequence and, if I

may say so, the reward of accomplished duty. Weigh well this doctrine,

to which is attached the destiny of the world.

Finally, we believe in the life everlasting. Doubtless it is to be

desired that all men should make every effort for the reign of justice

on this earth; in this, the Catholics have not been wanting, nor ever

will be. But whatever may be the legitimate beauty of these attempts,

I think that the perfection of ideal justice will only be found in the

future life, and that, to make the definitive balance of the fate of

each man, heaven must always enter in the calculation. Here below there

are too many inconsolable sorrows, more suffering than social equality

can ever suppress. Alas! there will always be the passions that ravage

the heart; always ingratitude and abandonment; always sickness and

the death of those whom we love best. Paradise of my God! you will

re-establish the equilibrium; paradise of my God! if you are, above

all, destined for those who have suffered, you will be assuredly opened

to workmen. In this hope I live.

And here I am led to recapitulate, not without emotion, all the

benefits that Providence has more especially reserved for you. “A

heavenly Father, who merits above all the title of workman, and who

made the earth; a God, who comes on earth to take up the plane, the

saw, and the hammer, and become the prototype of workmen; an infallible

church that for eighteen hundred years has bent over workmen, to

enlighten, console, and love them; an eternity of happiness, where all

present injustice will be superabundantly repaired.”

Workmen, my brethren, what can you ask further? In the place of God,

what could you make better? Answer.

II.

What do we wish, however? In other words, what can we promise you?

First of all, there are twenty promises we cannot make you, and it is

our duty here to warn you of our _non possumus_.

We cannot promise you ever to consider armed revolt as a duty or a

right. We cling with all the strength of our understanding to the

doctrine that even against injustice the protest should be martyrdom,

heroically accepted, heroically submitted. Thus did the first

Christians; they allowed themselves to be slaughtered like beautiful

sheep, covered with generous blood. This sublimely passive resistance

will not take from us, as it never did from them, the liberty of

speech; they died declaring their belief in God, the supreme Principle,

and in the Son of God, the sovereign Expiator. And when fifteen or

eighteen millions had been killed, the church triumphed; she then came

forth from the catacombs, and to her was given the mission to enlighten

the world.

We do not promise you the liberty of doing evil, and it would be false

if we even appeared to make such an engagement. At this instant, there

are five hundred men in France who pervert, corrupt, putrefy France;

among these are four hundred and ninety writers and ten caricaturists;

according to our idea, it is deplorable that they can freely exercise

their trade, and destroy with impunity so many millions of souls among

young girls, young men, and workmen.

We cannot with sincerity promise you absolute equality on this earth.

What we can promise you hereafter is that beautiful equality of

Christians who are sprung from the same God-Creator, saved by the

same God-Redeemer, enlightened by the same God-Illuminator. It is the

equality, the profound equality, of baptism and the eucharist; the

equality of souls in trials and reward; it is, in fine, equality in

heaven. As for the other, we will exhaust ourselves in the effort to

obtain it; but we have two obstacles before us, over which we do not

hope to triumph—sickness and vice. No equality is possible with these

two scourges, and they are ineradicable. We cannot promise you either

illegitimate pleasure or even the end of suffering. In taking suffering

from man—which is impossible—they would take from him his resemblance

to God, and consequently his true greatness and his titles to heaven.

The more we suffer, the more we resemble our Father, the more we merit

eternal joy. In suffering will be found the Christian principle, which

we cannot efface from the Gospel, and which is even the essence of

the Christian life. But we promise to suffer with you, and, as the

church has done for eighteen hundred years, to alleviate your sorrows,

to heal your wounds, to satisfy your material and moral hunger, and

to quench your thirst for truth. The fathers of the church invite us

only to consider ourselves as “depositaries of riches.” All property

is but a deposit in our hands—a deposit which we are strictly obliged

to communicate to you, and for which we must render an account to the

Master.

We promise you also faith, which gives to the soul a noble attribute

and a happy tranquillity. And with faith we can give you what has

been well called the _intelligence of life_—the intelligence thanks

to which the workman knows how to accept inequality, because he sees

in the horizon the beautiful perspective of eternity. We promise you

calmness in certainty, the consolation that every workman can feel

in regarding his divine type; and, in giving you this type, you will

possess a rare treasure, for which your souls are justly eager.

We promise you the sweetness of work Christianly accepted. Says a

great Christian: “What matters work when Jesus Christ is there?” It is

here that we must recall those splendid verses of the greatest of our

poets—those verses which we would wish to see written on the walls

of all our transfigured workshops: “God, look you—let the senseless

reject—causes to be born of labor two daughters: Virtue which makes

cheerfulness sweet, and Cheerfulness which makes virtue charming.” And

with work, you will conquer also the “courage of life”; for you will be

convinced that all beings are subjected to this great law, and that the

blows of your hammers are the notes of a universal chant. “All work,

each one is at his post; he who governs the state; the savant, who

extends the limits of human explorations; the sculptor, who makes the

statue spring from his chisel; the poet, who sings between his tears

and his sighs; the priest, who punishes and pardons—all, down to you,

poor workman, in your smoky workshop. We are all living stones of that

cathedral formed of souls and of centuries for the glory of God.”[200]

With such thoughts, the day appears short, and labor assumes an

exquisite character. What joy to say, “I work with the entire universe;

I work as God himself has set me the example.”

Still further, we promise you honor and pride. The Christian workman,

he whom we hope to see multiplied in Paris, loves his trade; he is

proud of it, and would blush if he did not prefer it to all others. He

contemplates with satisfaction the work which he has just accomplished,

and, like the Creator, with innocent simplicity, finds it beautiful. He

attempts without jealousy to equal and even surpass the best workmen

of his kind. He thinks that his country should be the most honorable

and the most honored of all, and that France should be the equal of all

other powers. On this subject he will not jest, but becomes grave. If

he belongs to a corporation, he is enthusiastic for the glory of his

banner, and will not allow it to be insulted. When a man thus respects

his position, he respects himself, and is led to respect God. Such are

the elements of what I willingly term the workman’s honor.

We promise you peace of conscience, the happiness that follows

accomplished duty, the repose in joy. Every workman among us should

say to his children what one of the most learned men of the day, the

illustrious Emmanuel de Rougé, wrote in his will: “May my children

preserve the faith. Repose of mind and heart can only be found in

Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and the Saviour of man.” To work, says a

contemporary philosopher, is easy; to repose is difficult. Man works

without repose when he labors relying only upon himself; he works and

reposes when he commences by first confiding himself to God. This is

the repose we offer you; it is supremely delicious, and the workman

will be led to repose, in working for others, like good Claude des

Huttes, the stone-cutter of St. Point, the friend of Lamartine, who,

poor as he was, worked gratuitously for those poorer than he, and said

to himself, when retiring to rest: “I have earned a good day’s wages;

for the poor pay me in friendship, my heart pays me in contentment,

and the good God will pay me in mercy.” O greatness of the Christian

workman!

We promise to labor as unceasingly for the amelioration of your

material condition as for the enlargement of your understanding. Evil

be to us if we did not think of the lodging, warming, nourishment of

the workman’s family; if we would confiscate science to our profit, and

not extend to you the treasure; if we ceased for a single instant to

open schools, asylums, circles, conferences, institutions of peace and

of light. We do not recoil before progress; no light terrifies us. From

texts of the Gospel, we have and ever will produce new consequences,

religious, philosophical, and social; and these conclusions constitute

a progress incessant and ever new—our progress, the only true progress.

Finally, we promise to organize with your aid the workingmen’s

associations. Association only frightens us when it leans towards

despotism, and we wish principally to give it a religious character.

The confraternity! an old word, which is ridiculed, but which in

reality is a great thing; men reunited for one temporal aim under the

protection of God, their angel guardians, and their celestial patrons;

free men, discussing with all loyalty the interests of their trade,

and knowing how to govern themselves. You will invent nothing better,

provided always that, in this enlarged institution, the Catholic spirit

is harmoniously mingled with the positive rules of social science. We

are in the midst of a crisis which cannot last long; to our mutual aid

and co-operative societies others will succeed more scientifically

organized, and, above all, more Christian. We hope in this future,

and believe it very near; it is the ideal for this world now, and for

heaven hereafter—heaven, which is the great association of the happy

...

III.

It would seem impossible, in the face of such doctrines, that any

misunderstanding could exist between the church and the workman; but

Satan has not understood it in this manner, and objections pour against

the church.

It has been said repeatedly that the church has done nothing for the

workman. It is the conclusion that Victor Hugo has given to his _Les

Misérables_, and this book has singularly contributed to develop hatred

in the hearts of the people. Numerous writers, animated with the same

ardent hate, affirm daily that, to find society well organized, we must

go back to antiquity, or take 1789 as the place of departure.

To refute these assertions, we will first say that, in regard to

antiquity, they forget that it was devoured by the frightful cancer

of slavery; among the greater part of nations before Christ, the

workmen were for a long time principally slaves. Manual labor,

which was universally despised, was performed by entire nations

of slaves, who were paid with lashes of the whip. Thus were built

many of the magnificent monuments of the Greeks, and, above all, of

the Romans—monuments which they place so far above those of the

present. I remember, one beautiful October night in the Eternal City,

contemplating with stupefaction the immense mass of the Coliseum; the

gigantic shafts of the columns which lay pell-mell at my feet; the

colossal aqueducts defined against the horizon—all the splendors

which are still grand even in their ruins. A priest who accompanied me

exclaimed, in astonished admiration, “You must acknowledge that the

Christian races have never produced such great works.”

“‘Tis true,” I replied, “and I thank God for it; for these monuments

you behold were chiefly constructed by the hands of slaves, and we now

only employ free workmen, whom we pay for their labor.”

We do not sufficiently reflect on this. Obelisks, immense pyramids,

splendid porticos, hippodromes where so much plebeian blood flowed;

theatres where modesty was brutally violated; temples where they

adored so many passions, so many vices; tombs where so much vanity is

revealed; elegant houses, but where the wife and child were so little

valued; astonishing monuments of incomparable art, I admire you much

less since I know by whose hands you were raised. It is not thus that

they have built since the advent of Jesus Christ and the church.

There is in history a proposition of more than mathematical clearness,

which I declare solemnly to be true; it is that _the church destroyed

slavery_. It is the church that gradually transformed the slave into

the serf; that by degrees compelled society, formed by her, to change

the serf into the freeman. This is established by the records, century

after century, year after year, day after day. It is true, the church

did not improvise in an hour this admirable change, this marvellous

progress; it is not her custom to improvise, and, truth to say, she

improvises nothing; she moves slowly but surely. She never roused the

slaves to revolt, but she recalled the masters to their duty. She

gave great care to the question of marriage between slaves; for, with

intelligent foresight, she knew that the whole future depended on it:

briefly, in 300, there were millions of slaves—in 1000, not one.

Everywhere existed admirable confraternities of workmen, who worked

without pay on the numerous cathedrals scattered throughout Europe;

thousands of men labored gratuitously for God, or nobly earned their

living in working for their brothers. Will you deny this fact? I defy

you to do it. The church conquered for the workmen two inappreciable

things—liberty and dignity; and, for so many benefits, she too

often receives but ingratitude and forgetfulness. One day, while

rambling through the wide streets of Oxford, that city of twenty-four

colleges, formerly founded by the church, and which live to-day on

those foundations of our fathers, I inquired if there could be found

a Catholic Church. I was conducted into a kind of room, narrow and

low, which many of your employers would not use for a factory or shop.

That was what they condescended to lease the holy church of God in the

splendid city, built with her hands, and bathed in her sweat. It is

thus with the working-class, which is also a creation of the church;

its mother is forgotten, and it is with difficulty that she is left

a little corner in the workshop; but it is there we will endeavor to

replace her with honor, and then each one of you can say with the poet

Jasmin: “I remember that, when I was young, the church found me naked,

and clothed me; now that I am a man, I find her naked, in my turn I

will cover her.” It is this cry we wish to hear from you.

Again, we hear that “the church is not the same to the rich and to the

poor.” When will it be proved, when can it be shown, that there are

two Creeds, two Decalogues, two codes of morality, two families of

sacraments, two dogmas, two disciplines, two altars—one for the use

of the great ones of the earth, the other destined for the poor? It

can never be done. They can bring forward a certain number of facts;

they can cite abuses more or less deplorable, and which we condemn

implacably; but the equality remains entire. I go further, and affirm

that the church has unceasingly favored the humble, the weak, and the

laborers. They are her privileged ones, and she has well shown it.

Another objection current among the working-class, another calumny

which has triumphed over the minds of the people, unworthily deceived,

is the scandalous assertion that “the church is the enemy of

instruction,” and this abominable falsehood is, above all, applied to

primary instruction. Now, it is mathematically proved that, before the

establishment of the church, there did not exist in the much-lauded

antiquity a single school for workmen. This first proposition is

clearly evident, and it is not less mathematically demonstrated that,

since the advent of the church, “free schools have been attached to

each parish, and confided to the direction of the clergy.” Such are

the words of a learned man of our day, who has best appreciated this

question, and who, in order to establish his conclusion, appeals to

texts the most luminously authentic.[201] We will not pause here to

speak of the profound love of Christ for the ignorant—that love which

shines forth in every page of the Gospel; nor will we linger over the

epoch of the persecution of the early church; but we will transport

ourselves to France in the first period of our history.

At the commencement of the VIth century, the Council of Vaison declares

that for a _long time_ in Italy “the priests had brought up young

students in their own houses, and instructed them like good fathers in

faith and sound knowledge.” In the year 700, a Council of Rouen goes

further, and commands _all Christians_ to send their children to the

city school: is not that instruction Christianly free and Christianly

obligatory? Meanwhile, Charlemagne appears, and watches energetically

that these noble lights shall not be extinguished, or that they may be

relighted. In 797, a capitulary of Theodulph offers these admirable

words: “That the priests should establish schools in the villages

and boroughs, and that no pay should be exacted from the children in

return.” The same decrees are found in the canons of the Council of

Rome in 826, in the bulls of Pope Leo IV., and in the capitulary of

Hérard, Archbishop of Tours, in 858.