Part 15

The old grandmother it was who had pulled his cassock and was wetting it with her tears.

“I shall obey, monsieur.”

That said, the rector was forced to sit down, for his legs trembled under him. The young secretary explained the frenzied state of the criminal’s mind.

“Do you think,” he said, as he ended his account, “that the sight of his young sister would shake his determination?”

“Yes, I do,” replied the rector. “Denise, you must go with us.”

“And I, too,” said the mother.

“No!” cried the father; “that child no longer exists for us, and you know it. None of us shall see him.”

“Do not oppose what may be for his salvation,” said the young abbe. “You will be responsible for his soul if you refuse us the means of softening it. His death may possibly do more injury than his life has done.”

“She may go,” said the father; “it shall be her punishment for opposing all the discipline I ever wished to give her son.”

The Abbe Gabriel and Monsieur Bonnet returned to the parsonage, where Denise and her mother were requested to come in time to start for Limoges with the two ecclesiastics.

As the younger man walked along the path which followed the outskirts of upper Montegnac he was able to examine the village priest so warmly commended by the vicar-general less superficially than he did in church. He felt at once inclined in his favor, by the simple manners, the voice full of magic power, and the words in harmony with the voice of the village rector. The latter had only visited the bishop’s palace once since the prelate had taken Gabriel de Rastignac as secretary. He had hardly seen this favorite, destined for the episcopate, though he knew how great his influence was. Nevertheless, he behaved with a dignified courtesy that plainly showed the sovereign independence which the Church bestows on rectors in their parishes. But the feelings of the young abbe, far from animating his face, gave it a stern expression; it was more than cold, it was icy. A man capable of changing the moral condition of a whole population must surely possess some powers of observation, and be more or less of a physiognomist; and even if the rector had no other science than that of goodness, he had just given proof of rare sensibility. He was therefore struck by the coldness with which the bishop’s secretary met his courteous advances. Compelled to attribute this manner to some secret annoyance, the rector sought in his own mind to discover if he had wounded his guest, or in what way his conduct could seem blameworthy in the eyes of his superiors.

An awkward silence ensued, which the Abbe de Rastignac broke by a speech that was full of aristocratic assumption.

“You have a very poor church, monsieur,” he said.

“It is too small,” replied Monsieur Bonnet. “On the great fete-days the old men bring benches to the porch, and the young men stand outside in a circle; but the silence is so great that all can hear my voice.”

Gabriel was silent for some moments.

“If the inhabitants are so religious how can you let the building remain in such a state of nudity?” he said at last.

“Alas, monsieur, I have not the courage to spend the money which is needed for the poor on decorating the church,--the poor are the church. I assure I should not be ashamed of my church if Monseigneur should visit it on the Fete-Dieu. The poor return on that day what they have received. Did you notice the nails which are placed at certain distances on the walls? They are used to hold a sort of trellis of iron wire on which the women fasten bouquets; the church is fairly clothed with flowers, and they keep fresh all day. My poor church, which you think so bare, is decked like a bride; it is filled with fragrance; even the floor is strewn with leaves, in the midst of which they make a path of scattered roses for the passage of the holy sacrament. That’s a day on which I do not fear comparison with the pomps of Saint-Peter at Rome; the Holy Father has his gold, and I my flowers,--to each his own miracle. Ah! monsieur, the village of Montegnac is poor, but it is Catholic. In former times the inhabitants robbed travellers; now travellers may leave a sack full of money where they please and they will find it in my house.”

“That result is to your glory,” said Gabriel.

“It is not a question of myself,” replied the rector, coloring at this labored compliment, “but of God’s word, of the blessed bread--”

“Brown bread,” remarked the abbe, smiling.

“White bread only suits the stomachs of the rich,” replied the rector, modestly.

The young abbe took the hands of the older priest and pressed them cordially.

“Forgive me, monsieur,” he said, suddenly making amends with a look in his beautiful blue eyes which went to the depths of the rector’s soul. “Monseigneur told me to test your patience and your modesty, but I can’t go any further; I see already how much injustice the praises of the liberals have done you.”

Breakfast was ready; fresh eggs, butter, honey, fruits, cream, and coffee were served by Ursule in the midst of flowers, on a white cloth laid upon the antique table in that old dining-room. The window which looked upon the terrace was open; clematis, with its white stars relieved in the centre by the yellow bunch of their crisped stamens, clasped the railing. A jasmine ran up one side, nasturtiums clambered over the other. Above, the reddening foliage of a vine made a rich border that no sculptor could have rendered, so exquisite was the tracery of its lace-work against the light.

“Life is here reduced, you see, to its simplest expression,” said the rector, smiling, though his face did not lose the look which the sadness of his heart conveyed to it. “If we had known of your arrival (but who could have foreseen your errand?) Ursule would have had some mountain trout for you; there’s a brook in the forest where they are excellent. I forget, however, that this is August and the Gabou is dry. My head is confused with all these troubles.”

“Then you like your life here?” said the young abbe.

“Yes, monsieur; if God wills, I shall die rector of Montegnac. I could have wished that my example were followed by certain distinguished men who have thought they did better things in becoming philanthropists. But modern philanthropy is an evil to society; the principles of the Catholic religion can alone cure the diseases which permeate social bodies. Instead of describing those diseases and extending their ravages by complaining elegies, they should put their hand to the work and enter the Lord’s vineyard as simple laborers. My task is far from being accomplished here, monsieur. It is not enough to reform the people, whom I found in a frightful condition of impiety and wickedness; I wish to die in the midst of a generation of true believers.”

“You have only done your duty, monsieur,” said the young man, still coldly, for his heart was stirred with envy.