A DISCOMFITED BISHOP
Next morning, as usual, I was up early, and walked down to the
village. There I found Father Benart, the good little man, just coming
out of the church. He told me he had got word that his brother, the
bishop, was coming to visit him and Madame Cheverny that day, and he
knew a sharp disappointment was in store for the bishop when he should
find Madame Riano absent. Then Father Benart asked me some very
intelligent questions about Count Saxe's exploits in the Rhine
campaigns. As we talked we walked along a narrow road by a field, in
which some women were at work, digging and planting. Among the workers
I recognized at once the unfortunate Lisa. She was poorly but cleanly
clad, and although it was plain she labored hard, she was inexpert,
and did not accomplish a great deal.
All of the women, except Lisa, were coarse peasant women, with stout
arms and legs, broad backs, and but little inferior in physical
strength to men. Lisa, on the contrary, was more delicate, more thin
and pale than she had ever been before. She worked steadily, neither
turning to the right nor to the left, not even when one of the women
pointed to her and uttered a jeer, which was greeted with coarse
laughter. Her pale face colored faintly, but she made no response,
going on with her work. Father Benart opened his mouth to call out a
reproof to the women, who joined in taunting the unfortunate girl, but
changed his mind.
"No," he said aloud, "it is just that she should bear her punishment,
and this public shame may save some other girl from the same downward
path, but God is more merciful than man."
While we were standing in the road beside the field we saw a great,
lumbering coach approaching, which the little priest at once
recognized as that of his brother, the bishop. His Grace had not been
expected until the afternoon, but here he was at eight o'clock in the
morning. I suspected the bishop had not enjoyed a very good lodging
the night before. When the coach drew near we saw the bishop sitting
in it alone. As soon as it was close enough it was stopped, and the
bishop called to his brother, invited him to step within, and
recognizing me as the Tatar prince with whom he was acquainted,
extended the same civility to me. We both accepted and mounted into
the coach, which proceeded toward the chateau of Capello, where his
Grace said he was going on a particular errand. I fancied the bishop
preferred the cookery of the chateau to that of Father Benart's
housekeeper.
His Grace had sharp eyes, and had observed the scene going on in the
fields, about which he inquired. Father Benart told him it was Lisa,
with whose story the bishop was perfectly acquainted.
"That is one of the things that I wish especially to speak to
you about," said the bishop to Father Benart, in the tone of a
schoolmaster and without regarding my presence in the least. "My
brother, it is with grief that I learn of what has been going on
in your parish of late, of the sin and evil behavior."
"Alas, my brother," responded Father Benart gravely, "there is always
sin and evil behavior of some sort in this parish, and I greatly fear,
until mankind is totally changed from what it has ever been, that a
certain portion of sin and evil behavior must abide with us."
The bishop scowled.
"I fear you do not precisely understand me, brother. I refer
particularly to the case of Peter Embden's niece, who, I hear, has
returned here, and has not only had all her sins forgiven, but
forgotten, as it were. And I recognize the girl yonder flaunting her
shame in the face of honest women."
Father Benart silently pointed out of the coach window to Lisa in the
distance, her thin form outlined against the bright sky of a May
morning. She was a picture of patience and penitence. The bishop,
however, although he was not a cruel man, loved to scold, and
proceeded to harangue Father Benart, who listened patiently and
replied:
"The unfortunate girl is a shining example of God's grace. She tells
me--and I have ever found her truthful, having known her from her
infancy--that finding herself deserted by that villain of villains,
Jacques Haret, she had but one thought--to drown herself--and, as she
walked along the brink of a river with this thought in her heart,
God's light came to her; she saw it would be but to heap sin on sin,
and a voice within her bade her return to her uncle, who had suffered
so much for her sin. And so, struggling against the Spirit of Evil,
which made her dread this place worse than any in the world, she came
back; came back half starved, half clothed, and arriving at nightfall,
went to Peter Embden's door, and offered to go or to stay, as he
should wish. And he, a gentle and forgiving man, bade her, as did our
Lord and Saviour, to sin no more, and took her again under his roof.
Then, coming early next morning to ask of me what he should do, being
greatly troubled in his mind, I said to him to treat this poor sinner
as he himself would wish to be treated at the Last Day. So he has
given her bread and shelter since."
"Very reprehensible," cried the bishop. "Such lapses should be
punished, punished with severity, and Madame Cheverny, wilful and
impractical woman that she is, disdaining advice from all, abetted you
in this, for the girl could not have remained in Peter's house without
Madame Cheverny's consent."
"True," said Father Benart. "Of course Peter was obliged to ask Madame
Cheverny's consent. I did not even think it necessary to remind him of
that. And as to Madame Cheverny's asking advice, I know of no one who
has managed affairs so successfully as Madame Cheverny. We might all
of us ask advice of her in many things."
The air of humility with which the little priest said this convinced
me that he was a wit disguised in his rusty cassock. The bishop did
not relish the implication in his brother's speech, and resumed with
some choler.
"I presume that headstrong woman, Peggy Kirkpatrick, who wishes to be
thought Jove in petticoats, went about the parish counseling all the
young women to follow Lisa Embden's example."
"I can not inform you on that point, brother," replied Father Benart,
"I have not cognizance of all Madame Riano says and does."
"She is a great trial of my patience," said the bishop. "She is the
thorn in my flesh like unto the one that St. Paul prayed seven
times that he might be delivered from. I should come oftener to
the chateau of Capello, but for the unpleasant chance of meeting
Peggy Kirkpatrick."
"You will not meet her this time, brother. She is in Luxembourg."
At once the bishop's countenance fell, but he recovered himself
sufficiently to express satisfaction that Madame Riano was in
Luxembourg. He then went on to say, taking me as well as his brother
into his confidence, that one object of his visit was to induce
Francezka to give up all hope of her husband's return, and, putting on
mourning, to comport herself as a widow should. I could not help
compassionating the bishop when he said this, knowing what he was
likely to receive. He consulted with Father Benart whether he should
admonish Francezka in public or in private. Father Benart reflected a
moment before he answered. We were then driving along the splendid
avenue of lindens toward the chateau, which sat in fairy beauty on its
terraces, the morning sun gilding its white facade, the canal
sparkling in the light, the grass freshly green--all, all, lovely to
excess. After a pause, Father Benart spoke:
"It is a painful and delicate subject, brother, and but little can be
safely said upon it. I think it best, perhaps, if you are determined
to speak, to do so in the presence of a third person."
The little priest told me afterward, that he was afraid, if the bishop
undertook to harangue Francezka in private, he would get such a
reception that his ears would burn for a week; and he looked to the
third person to restrain Francezka's tongue, which was somewhat free
on all occasions.
By that time we had dismounted from the coach. Francezka was not
awaiting the bishop at the top of the terrace, which seemed to annoy
him. He forgot that he had arrived some hours in advance of the time.
Count Saxe, however, was strolling about enjoying the fragrance of the
morning. The bishop had not seen him since our return from Courland,
and, by some accident, had never been enlightened as to his real name
and rank. It was not without secret amusement that I introduced him to
the bishop, who instantly recognized his old acquaintance. His Grace
was a moving sight at the moment. His face fell, his eye wandered
aimlessly around as he muttered to himself:
"Count Saxe--Count Saxe--and is it possible I did not know that he was
Count Saxe?"
"I think not, Monseigneur," replied Count Saxe, "else your Grace would
not have criticized my expedition into Courland so freely before my
face."
The bishop's chagrin was a little mitigated by Francezka's appearance
at that moment. She greeted him courteously, apologized for her delay
in appearing, and had old Peter to show the bishop to his apartment,
where he might repose himself until dinner time. Count Saxe made some
excuse to be absent from dinner, and when the hour came, only
Francezka, the bishop, Father Benart, Madame Chambellan and myself sat
down together.
As soon as it was over, and we had retired to the red saloon, the
bishop intimated he had something of a particular nature to say to
Francezka.
"Then, will your Grace say it here?" said Francezka, who knew the
bishop's propensity for haranguing, and reckoned, as Father Benart had
done in her own case, upon Father Benart to restrain the bishop. She
continued: "All of the friends present are close to me, and conversant
with my affairs--hence, no harm can come of your Grace's speaking
openly."
I saw the calmness of her manner, and her air of gentle expectancy
somewhat disconcerted the bishop, who perhaps found women disconcerting
creatures.
"Madame, my friend," began the bishop, following the advice of
Horatius Flaccus, and plunging into the middle of things, "I have come
upon a painful errand. Reproof is always painful to me."
"Yes, your Grace."
As Francezka said this, there was a gleam in her eyes like laughter.
And Pere Benart took out his handkerchief and coughed violently.
"Reproof, I say, is painful to me," repeated the bishop blandly, "but
I should be a renegade to my duty, if I spared you, my child, in order
to spare myself. First, I must complain of the actual encouragement
you give to vice by permitting that niece of Peter Embden's to remain
in his house, which is your property."
"I do it, your Grace," replied Francezka, sweetly, and with a glance
at Father Benart, "by the express advice of my director."
And then, with folded hands, she sat demurely looking down, and
leaving Father Benart to shoulder the burden alone. The good bishop
saw that he had two recalcitrants to deal with instead of one; so,
like other weak, well-meaning men, he resorted to bluster when reason
did not suggest itself to him.
"It is my opinion," he said, raising his voice, "that Lisa Embden
should be sent out of this parish--sent to some city, where her past
is not known, and where she can give no scandal."
Francezka turned sweetly to her accomplice, and said:
"You hear that, Father Benart? The bishop looks to you to enforce
this."
Father Benart said not a word, but raising his eyes to the ceiling,
seemed to be absorbed either in prayer or in uncomplimentary
speculation about his brother. The bishop, who was not quite a fool,
saw that he had not gained his point. He then charged again, but this
time against another position.
"We will speak later of this affair of Lisa. To come now to something
more nearly concerning yourself. While your loyal devotion to your
husband, and your constant expectation of his return, do your heart
infinite honor, Madame, it is not equally flattering to your head. As
Swift, an English writer says, reason goes to cuffs with imagination,
and fancy gets astride of judgment. For, distressing as it is to me to
say it, I must tell you that Monsieur Gaston Cheverny will never
return."
Francezka grew a little pale at these words, but rallied after a
moment, speaking courteously.
"Such is your Grace's opinion. But you can not expect Gaston
Cheverny's wife to be the first to give up hoping for him."
"By no means. But--Madame Cheverny--you are a widow--and you should
conduct yourself as such. You should put on mourning, and place the
affairs of your husband before the courts, that they may be settled.
In short--pardon the form in which I put it--but you are a widow and
should conduct yourself as such."
"In that case, I should be at liberty to marry again," coolly remarked
Francezka. "Would your Grace recommend me to that?"
The bishop fairly jumped from his chair.
"Great God! No, Madame! It would give frightful scandal!"
"But, Monseigneur, you say that I am a widow--that I should wear
mourning. At least be consistent."
The bishop, swelling with wrath, rose and walked twice, thrice up and
down the room. I fancied he was saying in his mind--Was there ever so
vexatious a creature as this Francezka? She never had any proper
respect for authority! And there sat that easy young brother of his,
smiling at his discomfiture--the discomfiture of a bishop!
Francezka remained silent for a little while, and when she spoke it
was with seriousness.
"Your Grace asks me to give up the hope on which I live. I can not do
it. My husband may be dead, but I have not been able to secure the
smallest proof of it. It has been four years since he disappeared.
But we know of strange disappearances lasting much longer. And can you
ask me--his wife, who adores him--to believe him dead unless I have
proof of it? No! a thousand times no!"
She rose and her face and eyes were flooded with color and light, as
she stood facing the bishop.
"Do not again speak to me of putting on mourning. When I do that, then
indeed is life over for me--all hope, all joy, forever dead. And do
you suppose I care that idle people wonder at me? I am too busy to
care for anything but my husband's return; I have my estates to
manage--a heavy task for a woman. And I am determined that if my
husband returns, he shall find not only a great estate to his hand,
but an accomplished wife to his mind. Look at this proof of my study
and endeavor!"
She threw open the door which communicated with the little yellow
room, where she spent most of her time. The walls were lined with
books, and there were several musical instruments in the room.
"There do I read and study daily. Gaston Cheverny was ever fond of
books--fonder than I, carried away as I was with the pleasures of
life. He must often have felt the want of knowledge on my part. He
shall not feel it so, when he returns. And does your Grace see yonder
harpsichord? When my husband last saw me, I played but fairly well on
it. Now, I spend a part of every day before it, and I am a skilled
performer. And I dress every day in silk--for Gaston's sake. For he
may come to me at any moment, and I do not wish him to find me a
frowsy creature, but a wife worthy of him. To be that, I must be ever
well dressed, well read, well behaved--such, I hope I am."
The flood of her vehemence arrested the bishop's impatient walk.
Father Benart sighed a little, as any one might, at this poor, human
heart of Francezka's, laid bare, and beating desperately against the
fate that seemed closing around her. Neither one of them spoke
immediately, nor did I. No one of us present knew how to answer
Francezka. After a considerable pause, the bishop said, not unkindly:
"I perceive my counsel has been in vain. I must depart."
Francezka, then, mindful of her duties as chatelaine, pressed him to
remain, or at least to take some refreshment before leaving. To the
last he agreed.
Peter, in response to a ring of the bell, brought a tray, with wine
and glasses. At the first sip of wine, the bishop's countenance
cleared. He was a judge of wines and that in his glass was worthy even
of the Bishop of Louvain.
"This is admirable--the best of the Mosel vineyards," he said.
"Yes," sweetly replied Francezka. "I stocked the cellar last year with
good wine at a reasonable price--" which she named.
The bishop blinked his eyes at her. How came it, that she, a woman,
should have so good a head? And being practical in the purchase of
wine and the management of affairs should be so impractical concerning
her missing husband? However, the bishop would depart, so he said
adieu to us all, and accompanied by Father Benart, went away, to spend
the night at the priest's house.
I made no remark about the bishop's visit, but I saw that it was not
without its effect on Francezka, in spite of her spirited protest to
his Grace. She was more silent all of that day than I had yet seen
her, and there was a heart-breaking look in her eyes that went to my
heart, and also to the heart of the dog, Bold; for, seeing her
pensive, he rose from his place at her feet, and laid his head, with a
little whine of sympathy, upon her lap. For once, Francezka forgot to
notice him. Her eyes were fixed on something afar which yet she saw
not, and I heard her murmur:
"Oh, my tired heart!"
Father Benart told me afterward, the conclusion of the bishop's
concern about Lisa. The little priest did not tell it me exactly as I
repeat it; but what I had seen of his Grace supplied all details. His
defeat at Francezka's hands determined him on punishing somebody, and
Father Benart and Lisa being convenient, they became the natural
objects of the bishop's righteous indignation. In the evening, after
his arrival at his brother's house, the bishop told Father Benart that
he felt it his duty to speak to Lisa Embden--he was fearful that the
girl's soul would be lost for want of counsel and reproof. Father
Benart, without protesting, said that he would send for Lisa in the
morning. Next morning, when the bishop was having his breakfast in the
garden, Lisa appeared. This brazen creature, as the bishop chose to
esteem her, looked anything but brazen. With every indication of
privations undergone, and with her poor clothes, Lisa was a very good
exemplification that the wages of sin is death.
The bishop calling up his sternest accents said:
"I know what your sin has been--are you truly penitent for it?"
Lisa made a faint sound, indicating her penitence.
"And are you willing to do penance for it?"
Lisa inclined her head, and trembled.
"Your sin has been very great. Your behavior no doubt was light, such
as to encourage Jacques Haret or any other evil man."
Lisa raised her eyes to the bishop's face, and said gently:
"Sir, I can not say that. However wicked I was, at least I was not
wicked in that way."
"But you must have been," replied the bishop, with the calm confidence
of ignorance. "And the misery you endured while persisting in your
sinful courses, was God's punishment."
"But, sir," said Lisa, still calmly, "I was not miserable then. I was
the happiest of God's creatures."
"Impossible!" cried the bishop, starting from his chair, as he had
done the day before, in the interview with that other obstinate woman,
Francezka Cheverny.
Lisa did not contradict the bishop, but the bishop saw that his denial
of the fact had not really affected that fact.
"Do you mean to tell me," thundered the bishop, "that you were happy
in the society of your partner in guilt?"
"Yes, sir."
The bishop dropped back in his chair. What problems were these parish
affairs anyway! Here was a girl, persisting in saying she had been
happy in guilt, when the bishop knew--or thought he knew--that all
sinners were miserable!
"But at least you are not happy now?"
"No, sir."
"And why?"
"Because," replied poor Lisa, with the utmost simplicity, "I can never
see Monsieur Jacques Haret again."
"You may go."
Lisa turned and walked rapidly away.
Soon after that I passed through the village, and noticed the bishop's
coach in front of the priest's modest house. The two brothers were
coming out of the door. Father Benart was saying:
"There are many inexplicable things in a country parish, my brother.
It is not in my power to make Lisa Embden, or any other creature, feel
happiness in the pursuit of good. If I can keep them a little out of
the path of evil, it is all I can hope for."
"I am of the belief," cried the bishop, "that one self-willed and
unruly woman like Peggy Kirkpatrick can put insubordination into the
head of a young woman, like Francezka Cheverny--Francezka, in her
turn, can implant it in her dependents. There seems to be a general
lack of discipline among the women in your parish, brother."
"True," replied Father Benart, "and I take it that Madame Riano is to
blame for Lisa Embden's lapse from virtue."
The bishop glared at his brother--Father Benart standing, smiling and
blinking in the sun. The bishop then noticed me, but I was no
restraint upon him, for he plunged into a long and severe discourse
upon the evils Father Benart was bringing upon his parish by allowing
the women in it to do pretty much as they pleased. Father Benart
meekly excused himself by saying that he could not help it. The
bishop, however, showed that he had not a bad heart, by leaving a
dozen gold louis, which he directed should be spent on the poor of the
parish--at the same time sternly commanding that not one penny should
be spent on the chief of sinners, Lisa Embden. Father Benart accepted
this dole with a twinkle in his eye and solemnly promised that Lisa
should not have a penny of it.
But a few days more remained of our stay. It passed quietly, in sweet
and gentle converse, and with books and music. The change continued in
Francezka after the bishop's visit. He was a man of little weight, and
she had frankly treated him as such, but his belief that Gaston
Cheverny was no more, which she had treated with scorn, had yet left
its impress on her; perhaps because people of more sense than the
bishop had been more guarded and tender with her. But when we bade her
good by, she said to us:
"Remember, Count Saxe and Babache, if you are my friends, you will
never forget to make inquiry of each and every person you meet, from
whom it would be possible to hear of my husband. For myself, once,
every day, shall I go to the spot in the Italian garden which
overlooks the highroad, to watch for my heart's desire--and if he
never returns--"
She paused and her eyes filled, and she quoted from some book she had
lately been reading:
"Man is based on hope; he has, properly, no other possession but hope;
this habitation of his is named the place of hope."
Her eyes, as she said this, grew dark with melancholy, but there was
still an undying courage shining in them. Poor, poor Francezka!