“I did not speak to you, sir,” said Moretti, turning upon him angrily.
“I know you did not. I spoke to you,” answered the young man coolly, “I have as much right to speak to you, as you have to speak to me, or to be silent — if you choose. You say the Church is a system of moral government. Well, look back on the past, and see what it has done in the way of governing. In the very earliest days of Christianity, when men were simple and sincere, when their faith in the power of the Divine things was strong and pure, the Church was indeed a safeguard, and a powerful restraint on man’s uneducated licentiousness and inherent love of strife. But when the lust of gain began to creep like a fever into the blood of those with whom worldly riches should be as nothing compared to the riches of the mind, the heart, and the spirit, then the dryrot of hypocrisy set in — then came craftiness, cruelty, injustice, and pitilessness, and such grossness of personal conduct as revolts even the soul of an admitted sinner. Moral government? Where is it to day? Look at France — Italy — Spain! Count up the lies told by the priests in these countries to feed the follies of the ignorant! Did Christ ever tell lies? No. Then why, if you are His follower, do you tell them?”
“I repeat, I did not speak to you,” said Moretti, his eyes sparkling with fury,— “To me you are a heretic, accursed, and excommunicate! — thrust out of salvation, and beyond my province to deal with!”
“Oh, that a man should be thrust out of salvation in these Christian days!” exclaimed Cyrillon with a flashing look of scorn, “And that he should find a servant of Christ to tell him so! Accursed and excommunicate! Then I am a kind of leper in the social community! And you, as a disciple of your Master, should heal me of my infirmity — and cleanse me of my Leprosy! Loathsome as leprosy is whether of mind or body, Christ never thrust it out of salvation!”
“The leper must wish to be cleansed!” said Moretti fiercely, “If he does not himself seek to be healed of his evil, no miracle can help him.”
“Oh but I do seek!” And young Vergniaud threw back his handsome head with a splendid gesture of appeal, “With all my soul, if I am diseased, I wish to be cleansed! Will YOU cleanse me? CAN you? I wish to stand up whole and pure, face to face with the Divine in this world, and praise Him for His goodness to me. But surely if He is to be found anywhere it is in the Spirit of Truth! Not in any sort of a lie! Now, according to His own words the Holy Ghost is the Spirit of Truth. ‘When the Spirit of Truth is come He will guide you into all Truth.’ And what then? Monsignor, it is somewhat dangerous to oppose the Spirit of Truth, whether that Force speak through the innocent lips of a child or the diseased ones of a leper! ‘For whosoever speaketh a word against the Son of Man it shall be forgiven him, BUT WHOSOEVER SPEAKETH AGAINST THE HOLY GHOST’ — or the Spirit of Truth, known sometimes as Inspiration . . . “IT SHALL NOT BE FORGIVEN HIM in this world, neither in the world to come.’ That is a terrible curse, which an ocean of Holy Water could scarcely wash away!”
“Your argument is wide of the mark,” said Moretti, impatiently, yet forced in spite of himself to defend his position, “the Church is not opposed to Truth but to Atheism.”
“Atheism! There is no such thing as a real atheist in the world!” declared Cyrillon passionately, “No reasoning human being alive, that has not felt the impress of the Divine Image in himself and in all the universe around him! He may, through apathy and the falsehoods of priestcraft, have descended into callousness, indifference and egotism, but he knows well that that impress cannot be stamped out — that he will have to account for his part, however small it be, in the magnificent pageant of life and work, for he has not been sent into it ‘on chance.’ Inasmuch as if there is chance in one thing there must be chance in another, and the solar system is too mathematically designed to be a haphazard arrangement. With all our cleverness, our logic, our geometrical skill, we can do nothing so exact! As part of the solar system, you and I have our trifling business to enact, Monsignor, — and to enact it properly, and with satisfaction to our Supreme Employer, it seems to me that if we are honest with the world and with each other, we shall be on the right road.”
“For my part, I am perfectly honest with you,” said Moretti smiling darkly, “I told you, and I tell you again, that to me you are a heretic, accursed and excommunicate. You will, as the democrat ‘Gys Grandit,’ no doubt feel a peculiar pleasure when your father is also declared accursed and excommunicate. I have said, and I say again, that the Church is a system of moral government, and that no laxity can be permitted. It is a system founded on the Gospel of our Lord, but to obey the commands of our Lord to the letter we should have to find another world to live in—”
“Pardon me — I ask for information,” interposed Cyrillon, “You of course maintain that Christ was God in Man?”
“Most absolutely!”
“And yet you say that to obey His commands to the letter we should have to find another world to live in! Strange! Since He made the world and knows all our capabilities of progress! But have you never fancied it possible that we may be forced to obey His commands to the letter, or perish for refusing to do so?”
Moretti made as though he would have sprung forward, — his face was drawn and rigid, his lips tightly compressed, but he had no answer to this unanswerable logic. He therefore took refuge in turning brusquely away as before and was about to address himself to Bonpre, but stopped short, as he perceived Manuel, who had entered while the conversation was going on, and who now stood quietly by the Cardinal’s chair in an attitude of composed attention. Moretti glanced at him with a vexed sense of irritation and reluctant wonder; — then moistening his dry lips he began,
“I am bound to regret deeply that your Eminence has allowed this painful discussion to take place in your presence without reproof. But I presume you are aware of the responsibility incurred?”
The Cardinal slowly inclined his head in grave assent.
“In relating the scene of to-day to His Holiness, I shall be compelled to mention the attitude you have maintained throughout the conversation.”
“You are at perfect liberty to do so, my son,” said Bonpre with unruffled gentleness.
Moretti hesitated. His eyes again rested on Manuel.
“Pardon me,” he said suddenly and irrelevantly, “This boy . . .”
“Is a foundling,” said the Cardinal, “He stays with me till I can place him well in the world. He has no friends.”
“He took some part in the affair of this morning, I believe?” queried Moretti, with a doubtful air.
“He saved my life,” said Abbe Vergniaud advancing, “It was not particularly worth saving — but he did it. And I owe him much — for in saving me, he also saved Cyrillon from something worse than death.”
“Naturally you must be very gratefu,” retorted Moretti satirically, “The affection of a son you have denied for twenty-five years must be exceedingly gratifying to you!” He paused — then said, “Does this boy belong to the Church?”
“No,” said Manuel, answering for himself, “I have no Church.”
“No Church!” exclaimed Moretti, “His Eminence must educate you, boy. You must be received.”
“Yes,” said Manuel, raising his eyes, and fixing them full on Moretti, “I must be received! I need education to understand the Church. And so, — for me to be received might be difficult!”
XVI.
As he thus spoke, slowly and with an exquisite softness, something in his voice, manner, or words aroused a sudden and violent antipathy in Moretti’s mind. He became curiously annoyed, without any possible cause, and out of his annoyance answered roughly.
“Ignorance is always difficult to deal with,” he said, “But if it is not accompanied by self-will or obstinacy — (and boys of your age are apt to be self-willed and obstinate) — then much can be done. The Church has infinite patience even with refractory sinners.”
“Has it?” asked Manuel simply, and his clear eyes, turning slowly towards Vergniaud and his son, rested
there a moment, and then came back to fix the same steady look upon Moretti’s face. Not another word did he say, — but Moretti flushed darkly, and anon grew very pale. Restraining his emotions however by an effort, he addressed himself with cold formality once more to the Abbe.
“You have no explanation then to offer to His Holiness, beyond what you have already said?”
“None!” replied Vergniaud steadily. “The reasons for my conduct I think are sufficiently vital and earnest to be easily understood.”
“And your Eminence has nothing more to say on this matter?” pursued Moretti, turning to the Cardinal.
“Nothing, my son! But I would urge that the Holy Father should extend his pardon to the offenders, the more so as one of them is on the verge of that land where we ‘go hence and are no more seen.’”
Moretti’s eyelids quivered, and his lips drew together in a hard and cruel line.
“I will assuredly represent your wishes to His Holiness,” he replied, “But I doubt whether they will meet with so much approval as surprise and regret. I have the honour to wish your Eminence farewell!”
“Farewell, my son!” said the Cardinal mildly, “Benedicite!”
Moretti bent down, as custom forced him to do, under the gently uttered blessing, and the extended thin white hand that signed the cross above him. Then with a furtive under-glance at Manuel, whose quiet and contemplative observation of him greatly vexed and disturbed his composure, he left the room.
There was a short silence. Then Abbe Vergniaud, somewhat hesitatingly, approached Bonpre.
“I much fear, my dear friend, that all this means unpleasantness for you at the Vatican,” he said, “And I sincerely grieve to be the means of bringing you into any trouble.”
“Nay, there should be no trouble,” said Bonpre quietly, “Nothing has happened which should really cause me any perplexity — on the contrary, events have arranged themselves so that there shall be no obstacle in the way of speaking my mind. I have journeyed far from my diocese to study and to discover for myself the various phases of opinion on religious matters in these days, and I am steadily learning much as I go. I regret nothing, and would have nothing altered, — for I am perfectly confident that in all the things I meet, or may have to consider, my Master is my Guide. All is well wherever we hear His Voice; — all things work for the best when we are able to perceive His command clearly, and have strength and resolution enough to forsake our sins and follow Him.”
As he spoke, a tranquil smile brightened his venerable features, and seeing the fine small hand of Manuel resting on his chair, he laid his own wrinkled palm over it and clasped it tenderly. Cyrillon Vergniaud, moved by a quick impulse, suddenly advanced towards him.
“Monseigneur,” he said, with unaffected deference, “You are much more than a Cardinal, — you are a good and honest man! And that you serve Christ purely is plainly evidenced in your look and bearing. Do me one favour! Extend your pardon to me for my almost committed crime of to-day, — and give me your blessing! I will try to be worthy of it!”
The Cardinal was silent for a few minutes looking at him earnestly.
“My blessing is of small value,” he said, “And yet I do not think you would ask it for mere mockery of an old man’s faith. I should like,—” here he paused — then slowly went on again, “I should like to say a few words to you if I might — to ask you one or two questions concerning yourself—”
“Ask anything you please, Monseigneur,” replied Cyrillon, “I will answer you frankly and fully. I have never had any mysteries in my life save one, — that of my birth, which up till to day was a stigma and a drawback; — but now, I feel I may be proud of my father. A man who sacrifices his entire social reputation and position to make amends for a wrong done to the innocent is worthy of honour.”
“I grant it!” said the Cardinal, “But you yourself — why have you made a name which is like a firebrand to start a conflagration of discord in Europe? — why do you use your gifts of language and expression to awaken a national danger which even the strongest Government may find itself unable to stand against? I do not blame you till I hear, — till I know; — but your writings, — your appeals for truth in all things, — are like loud clarion blasts which may awaken more evil than good.”
“Monseigneur, the evil is not of my making, — it exists!” replied Cyrillon, “My name, my writings, — are only as a spark from the huge smouldering fire of religious discontent in the world. If it were not MY name it would be another’s. If I did not write or speak, someone else would write and speak — perhaps better — perhaps not so well. At any rate I am sincere in my convictions, and write from the fulness of the heart. I do not care for money — I make none at all by literature, — but I earn enough by my labour in the fields to keep me in food and lodging. I have no desire for fame, — except in so far as my name may serve as an encouragement and help to others. If you care to hear my story—”
“I should appreciate your confidence greatly,” said the Cardinal earnestly, “The Fates have made you a leading spirit of the time, — it would interest me to know your thoughts and theories. But if you would prefer not to speak—”
“I generally prefer not to speak,” replied Cyrillon, “But to-day is one of open confession, — and I think too that it is sometimes advisable for men of the Church to understand and enter into the minds of those who are outside the Church, — who will have no Church, — not from disobedience or insubordination, but simply because they do not find God or Christ in that institution as it at present exists. And nowadays we are seeking for God strenuously and passionately! We have found Him too in places where the Church assured us He was not and could not be.”
“Is there any portion of life where God is not?” asked Manuel gently.
Cyrillon’s dark eyes softened as he met the boy’s glance.
“No, dear child! — truly there is not, — but the priests do nothing to maintain or to prove that,” he replied; “and the more the world lifts itself higher and higher into the light, the more we shall perceive God, and the less we will permit anything to intervene between ourselves and Him. But you are too young to understand—”
“No, not at all too young to understand!” answered Manuel, “Not at all too young to understand that God is love, and pardon, and patience; — and that wheresoever men are intolerant, uncharitable, and bigoted, there they straightway depart from God and know Him not at all.”
“Truly that is how I understand Christianity,” said Cyrillon, “But for so simple and plain a perception of duty one is called atheist and socialist, and one’s opinions are branded as dangerous to the community. Truth is dangerous, I know — but why?”
“Would that not take a century to explain?” said the silvery voice of the Princesse D’Agramont, who entered with Angela at that moment, and made her deep obeisance before the Cardinal, glancing inquisitively as she did so at Manuel who still stood resting against the prelate’s chair, “Pardon our abrupt appearance, Monseigneur, but Angela and I are moved by the spirit of curiosity! — and if we are swept out of the Church like straws before the wind for our impertinence, we care not! Monsignor Moretti has just left the house, wrapt up in his wrath like a bird of prey in a thunder-cloud, muttering menaces against ‘Gys Grandit’ the Socialist writer. Now what in the world has Gys Grandit to do with him or with us? Salut, cher Abbe!” — and she gave Vergniaud her hand with charming friendliness; “I came here really to see you, and place the Chateau D’Agramont at your disposal, while I am away passing the winter in Italy. Pray make yourself at home there — and your son also . . .”
“Madame,” said the Abbe, profoundly touched by the sincerity of her manner, and by the evident cordiality of her intention, “I thank you from my heart for your friendship at this moment when friendship is most needed! But I feel I ought not to cast the shadow of my presence on your house under such circumstances — and as for my son — it would certainly be unwise for you to extend your gracious hospitali
ty to him . . . he is my son — yes truly! — and I acknowledge him as such; but he is also another person of his own making — Gys Grandit!”
Angela Sovrani gave a slight cry, and a wave of colour flushed her face, — the Princesse stood amazed.
“Gys Grandit!” she echoed in a low tone, “And Vergniaud’s son! Grand Dieu! Is it possible!” Then advancing, she extended both her hands to Cyrillon, “Monsieur, accept my homage! You have a supreme genius, — and with it you command more than one-half of the thoughts of France!”
Cyrillon took her hands, — lightly pressed, and released them.
“Madame, you are too generous!”
But even while he exchanged these courtesies with her, his eyes were fixed on Angela Sovrani, who, moving close to her uncle’s chair, had folded her hands upon its sculptured edge and now stood beside it, a graceful nymph-like figure of statuesque repose. But her breath came and went quickly, and her face was very pale.
“No wonder Monsignor Moretti was so exceedingly angry,” resumed the Princesse D’Agramont with a smile, “I understand the position now. It is a truly remarkable one. Monseigneur,” this with a profound reverence to the Cardinal, “you have found it difficult to be umpire in the discussion.”
“The discussion was not mine,” said the Cardinal slowly, “But the cause of the trouble is a point which affects many, — and I am one of those who desire to hear all before I presume to judge one. I have asked the son of my old friend Vergniaud to tell me what led him to make his assumed name one of such terror and confusion in the world; he is but six-and-twenty, and yet . . .”
“And yet people talk much of me you would say, Monseigneur,” said Cyrillon, a touch of scorn lighting up his fine eyes, “True, and it is easy to be talked of. That is nothing, I do not wish for that, except in so far as it helps me to attain my ambition.”
“And that ambition is?” queried the Princesse.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 479
