“If He came again, I fear He would not find much of His teaching in any of the creeds founded on His name! If He came again, then indeed might the churches tremble, totter and fall!”
“If He came again,” pursued Manuel, still in the same soft, even voice, “how do you think He would come?”
“‘Watch ye therefore for ye know not when He cometh,’” murmured the Cardinal,— “My dear child, I think if He came again it would be perhaps in the disguise of one who is poor and friendless ‘despised and rejected of men,’ as when He first glorified the earth by His presence; and I fear that in such plight He would find Himself, as before, unwelcome.”
Manuel made no reply just then, as they had arrived at home. The servant who admitted them told them that Donna Sovrani had a visitor in her studio, — so that the Cardinal and his young attendant went straight to their own apartments.
“Read to me, Manuel,” then said Bonpre, seating himself near the window, and looking out dreamily on the rich foliage of the woods and grassy slopes that stretched before him, “Find something in the Gospels that will fit what we have seen to-day. I am tired of all these temples and churches! — these gorgeous tombs and reliquaries; they represent penances and thank-offerings no doubt, but to me they seem useless. A church should not be a shrine for worldly stuff, unless indeed such things are used again for the relief of poverty and suffering; but they are not used; they are simply kept under lock and key and allowed to accumulate, — while human creatures dwelling perhaps quite close to these shrines, are allowed to die of starvation. Did you think this when you spoke to the priest who was offended with you to-day?”
“Yes, I thought it,” replied Manuel gently, “But then he said I was a heretic. When one loves God better than the Church is one called a heretic?”
Cardinal Bonpre looked earnestly at the boy’s inspired face, — the face of a dreaming angel in its deep earnestness.
“If so, then I am heretic,” he answered slowly, “I love the Creator as made manifest to me in His works, — I love Him in every flower which I am privileged to look upon, — I find Him in every art and science, — I worship Him in a temple not made with hands, — His own majestic Universe! Above all churches, — above all formulated creeds and systems I love Him! And as declared in the divine humanity of Christ I believe in, and adore Him! If this makes me unworthy to be His priest and servant then I confess my unworthiness!”
He had spoken these words more to himself than Manuel, and in his fervour had closed his eyes and clasped his hands, — and he almost fancied that a soft touch, light as a falling rose-leaf, had for a second rested on his brow. He looked up quickly, wondering whether it was Manuel who had so touched him, — the boy was certainly near him, — but was already seated with the Testament open ready to read as requested. The Cardinal raised himself in his chair, — a sense of lightness, and freedom, and ease, possessed him, — the hopeless and tired feeling which had a few minutes since weighed him down with an undefinable languor was gone, — and his voice had gained new strength and energy when he once more spoke.
“You have found words of our Lord which will express what we have seen to-day?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Manuel, and he read in a clear vibrating tone, “Woe unto you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites; because ye build the tombs of the prophets and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous.” Here he paused and said, while the Cardinal gazed at him wonderingly, “Is not that true of Paris? There is their great Pantheon where most of their prophets lie, — their poets and their teachers whom they wronged and slandered in their lifetime—”
“My child,” interrupted Bonpre gently, “Poets and so-called teachers are not always good men. One named Voltaire, who scoffed at God, and enunciated the doctrine of materialism in France, is buried there.”
“Nevertheless he also was a prophet,” persisted Manuel, in his quiet, half-childlike, half-scholarly way, “A prophet of evil. He was the incarnation of the future spirit of Paris. He lived as a warning of what was to come, — a warning of the wolves that were ready to descend upon the Master’s fold. But Paris was then perhaps in the care of those ‘hirelings’ who are mentioned here as caring not for the sheep.”
He turned a few pages and continued reading.
“‘Well hath Esais prophesied of you, hypocrites, as it is written, This people honoureth me with their lips but their heart is far from me. Howbeit in vain do they worship me, TEACHING FOR DOCTRINE THE COMMANDMENTS OF MAN.’”
He emphasised the last few words and looked up at the Cardinal, then he went on.
“‘Whosoever will come after me let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it, but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake the same shall save it.’”
“Yes,” said Cardinal Bonpre fervently, “It is all there!— ‘Whosoever will come after me let him deny himself,’ LET HIM DENY HIMSELF! That is the secret of it. Self-denial! And this age is one of self-indulgence. We are on the wrong road, all of us, both Church and laity, — and if the Master should come He will not find us watching, but sleeping.”
He broke off, as at that moment a knock came at the door and a servant entered the room bringing him a letter. It was from the Abbe Vergniaud, and ran as follows: —
“TRES CHER MONSIGNEUR! I preach the day after tomorrow at Notre Dame de Lorette, and if you wish to do a favour to a dying man you will come and hear me. I am moved to say things I have never said before, and it is possible I may astonish and perchance scandalise Paris. What inspires me I do not know, — perhaps your well-deserved reproach of the other day — perhaps the beautiful smile of the angel that dwells in Donna Sovrani’s eyes, — perhaps the chance meeting with your Rouen foundling on the stairs as I was flying away from your just wrath. He had been gathering roses in the garden, and gave me one with a grace in the giving which made the flower valuable. It still lives and blooms in a glass on my writing-table at which I have been jotting down the notes of what I mean to say. WHAT I MEAN TO SAY! There is more in those words than there seems, if you could but guess all! I shall trust to the day itself for the necessary eloquence. The congregation that assembles at the Lorette is a curious and a mixed one. ‘Artistes’ of the stage and the cafe chantant are among the worshippers; — dames of rank and fashion who worship the male ‘artistes,’ and the golden youth of Paris who adore the very points of the shoes of the female ones, — are generally there also. It is altogether what ‘perfide Albion,’ or Dame Grundee would call a ‘fast’ audience. And the fact that I have arranged to preach there will draw a still greater mixture and ‘faster’ quality, as I am, alas! — a fashion in preachers. I pray you to come, or I shall think you have not forgiven me!
“VERGNIAUD.”
Cardinal Bonpre folded the letter and put it aside with a curious feeling of compassion for the writer.
“Yes, I will go,” he thought, “I have never heard him preach, though I know by report that he is popular. I was told once that he seems to be possessed by a very demon of mockery, and that it is this spirit which makes his attraction for the people; but I hope it is something more than that — I hope—” Here interrupting his meditations he turned to Manuel.
“So you gave the Abbe Vergniaud a rose the other day, my child?”
“Yes,” replied Manuel, “He looked sad when I met him, — and sometimes a flower gives pleasure to a person in sorrow.”
The Cardinal thought of his own roses far away, and sighed with a sensation of longing and homesickness.
“Flowers are like visible messages from God,” he said, “Messages written in all the brightest and loveliest colours! I never gather one without finding out that it has something to say to me.”
“There is a legend,” said Manuel, “which tells how a poor girl who has lost every human creature she loved on earth, had a rose-tree she was fond of, and every day she found upon it just one bloom. And though she longed to gather the flower for herself she
would not do so, but always placed it before the picture of the Christ. And God saw her do this, as He sees everything. At last, quite suddenly she died, and when she found herself in Heaven, there were such crowds and crowds of angels about her that she was bewildered, and could not find her way. All at once she saw a pathway edged with roses before her, and one of the angels said, ‘These are all the roses you gave to our Lord on earth, and He has made them into a pathway for you which will lead you straight to those you love!’ And so with great joy she followed the windings of the path, seeing her roses blossoming all the way, and she found all those whom she had loved and lost on earth waiting to welcome her at the end!”
“A pretty fancy,” said the Cardinal smiling, “And, as not even a thought is wasted, who knows if it might not prove true?”
“Surely the beautiful must be the true always!” said Manuel.
“Not so, my child, — a fair face may hide an evil soul.”
“But only for a little while,” answered the boy, “The evil soul must leave its impress on the face in time, if life lasts long enough.”
“That is quite possible,” said Bonpre, “In fact, I think it often happens, — only there are some people who simulate the outward show of goodness and purity perfectly, while inwardly ‘they are as ravening wolves,’ and they never seem to drop the mask. Others again—” Here he paused and looked anxiously at his young companion, “I wonder what you will be like when you grow up, Manuel!”
“But if I never grow up, what then?” asked Manuel with a smile.
“Never grow up? You mean—”
“I mean if I die,” said Manuel, “or pass through what is called dying before I grow up?”
“God forbid!” said the Cardinal gently, “I would have you live—”
“But why,” persisted Manuel, “since death is a better life?”
Bonpre looked at him wistfully.
“But if you grow up and are good and great, you may be wanted in the world,” he said.
An expression of deep pain swept like a shadow across the boy’s fair open brow.
“Oh no!” he said quietly, “the world does not want me! And yet I love the world — not because it is a world, for there are millions upon millions of worlds, — they are as numerous as flowers in a garden — but because it is a sorrowful world, — a mistaken world, — and because all the creatures in it have something of God in them. Yes, I love the world! — but the world does not love me.”
He spoke in a tone of gentle pathos, with the resigned and patient air of one who feels the burden of solitude and the sense of miscomprehension. And closing the Testament he held he rested his clasped hands upon it, and for a moment seemed lost in sorrowful reverie.
“I love you,” said the Cardinal tenderly, “And I will take care of you as well as I can.”
Manuel looked up at him.
“And that will be well indeed, my lord Cardinal!” he said softly, “And you serve a Master who will hereafter say to you, remembering your goodness,— ‘Verily, in asmuch as ye have done it unto the least of my brethren ye have done it unto Me.’”
He smiled; and the Cardinal meeting his glance wondered whether it was the strong level light of the sinking sun through the window-pane that made such a glory shine upon his face, and gave such a brilliancy to his deep and steadfast eyes.
XI.
Meanwhile, Angela Sovrani was detained in her studio by the fascinating company and bewildering chatter of a charming and very well-known personage in Europe, — a dainty, exquisitely dressed piece of femininity with the figure of a sylph and the complexion of a Romney “Lady Hamilton,” — the Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein, an Austro-Hungarian of the prettiest and most bewitching type, who being a thorough bohemienne in spirit, and having a large fortune at her disposal, travelled everywhere, saw everything, and spent great sums of money not only in amusing herself, but in doing good wherever she went. By society in general, she was voted “thoroughly heartless,” — when as a matter of fact she had too much heart, and gave her “largesse” of sympathy somewhat too indiscriminately. Poor people worshipped her, — the majority of the rich envied her because most of them had ties and she had none. She might have married scores of times, but she took a perverse pleasure in “drawing on” her admirers till they were just on the giddy brink of matrimony, — then darting off altogether she left them bewildered, confused, and not a little angry.
“They tell me I cannot love, cara mia,” she was saying now to Angela who sat in pleased silence, studying her form, her colouring, and her animated expression; with all the ardour of an artist who knows how difficult it is to catch the swift and variable flashes of beauty on the face of a pretty woman, who is intelligent as well as personally charming. “They tell me I have no heart at all. Me — Sylvie! — no heart! Helas! — I am all heart! But to love one of those stupid heavy men, who think that just to pull a moustache and smile is sufficient to make a conquest — ah, no! — not for me! Yet I am now in love! — truly! — ah, you laugh!—” and she laughed herself, shaking her pretty head, adorned with its delicate “creation” in gossamer and feathers, which was supposed to be a hat— “Yes, I am in love with the Marquis Fontenelle! Ah! — le beau Marquis! He is so extraordinary! — so beautiful! — so wicked! It must be that I love him, or why should I trouble myself about him?”
She spread out her tiny gloved hands appealingly, with a delightful little shrug of her shoulders, and again Angela laughed.
“He is good-looking, certainly,” she said, “He is very like Miraudin. They might almost be brothers.”
“Miraudin, ce cher Miraudin!” exclaimed the Comtesse gaily, “The greatest actor in Europe! Yes, truly! — I go to the theatre to look at him and I almost fancy I am in love with him instead of Fontenelle, till I remember he stage-manages; — ah! — then I shudder! — and my shudder kills my love! After all it is only his resemblance to the Marquis that causes the love, — and perhaps the shudder!”
“Sylvie, Sylvie!” laughed Angela, “Can you not be serious? What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say,” declared Sylvie, “Miraudin used to be the darling of all the sentimental old maids and little school-girls who did not know him off the stage. In Paris, in Rome, in Vienna, in Buda-Pesth — always a conqueror of ignorant women who saw him in his beautiful ‘make-up’! Yes, he was perfectly delightful, — this big Miraudin, till he became his own manager and his own leading actor as well! Helas! What it is to be a manager! Do you know? It is to keep a harem like a grand Turk; — and woe betide the woman who joins the company without understanding that she is to be one of the many! The sultana is the ‘leading lady’. Poor Miraudin! — he must have many little faggots to feed his flame! Oh, you look so shocked! But the Marquis is just like him, — he also stage-manages.”
“In what way?”
“Ah, he has an enormous theatre, — the world! A big stage, — society! The harem is always being replenished! And he plays his part so well! He has what the wise-acrescall ‘perverted morals’, — they are so charming! — and he will not marry. He says, ‘Why give myself to one when I can make so many happy!’ And why will not I, Sylvie Hermenstein, be one of those many? Why will I not yield to the embraces of Monsieur le beau Marquis? Not to marry him, — oh, no! so free a bird could not have his wings clipped! And why will I not see the force of this?—”
She stopped, for Angela sprang towards her exclaiming,
“Sylvie! Do you mean to tell me that the Marquis Fontenelle is such a villain?—”
“Tais-toi! Dear little flame of genius, how you blaze!” cried Sylvie, catching her friend by the hand and kissing it, “Do not call Fontenelle a villain — he is too charming! — and he is only like a great many other men. He is a bold and passionate person; I rather like such characters, — and I really am afraid — afraid—” here she hesitated, then resumed, “He loves me for the moment, Angela, and I — I very much fear I love him for a little longer than that! C’est terrible! He is by
no means worthy of it, — no, but what does that matter! We women never count the cost of loving — we simply love! If I see much of him I shall probably sink into the Quartier Latin of love — for there is a Quartier Latin as well as a high class Faubourg in the passion, — I prefer the Faubourg I confess, because it is so high, and respectable, and clean, and grand — but—”
“Sylvie,” said Angela determinedly, “You must come away from Paris, — you must not see this man—”
“That is what I have arranged to do,” said Sylvie, her beautiful violet eyes flashing with mirth and malice intermingled, “I am flying from Paris . . . I shall perhaps go to Rome in order to be near you. You are a living safety in a storm, — you are so serene and calm. And then you have a lover who believes in the ideal and perfect sympathy.”
Angela smiled, — and Sylvie Hermenstein noted the warm and tender flush of pleasure that spread over her fair face.
“Yes, Florian is an idealist,” she said, “There is nothing of the brute in him.”
“And you think Fontenelle a brute?” queried Sylvie, “Yes, I suppose he is; but I have sometimes thought that all men are very much alike, — except Florian!” She paused, looking rather dubiously, and with a touch of compassion at Angela, “Well! — you deserve to be happy, child, and I hope you will be! For myself, I am going to run away from Monsieur le Marquis with as much speed as if I had stolen his watch!”
“It is the best thing you can do,” said Angela with a little sigh of relief, “I am glad you are resolved.”
Comtesse Sylvie rose from her chair and moved about the studio with a pretty air of impatience.
“If his love for me could last,” she said, “I might stay! I would love him with truth and passion, and I would so influence him that he should become one of the most brilliant leading men of his time. For he has all the capabilities of genius, — but they are dormant, — and the joys of self-indulgence appeal to him more strongly than high ambition and attainment. And he could not love any women for more than a week or a month at most, — in which temperament he exactly resembles the celebrated Miraudin. Now I do not care to be loved for a week or a month — I wish to be loved for always, — for always!” she said with emphasis, “Just as your Florian loves you.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 471
