The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  The Bishop gained courage from this levity. Forgetting his terror of this fabled man, he exclaimed, indignantly: “Madame de Collioure has justification for her apprehensions, Monsieur le Duc! I must confess that I have long been desirous of seeking help against this most deplorable and dangerous state of affairs on the estates of the young Comte de Vitry.”

  “Please continue,” sighed the Cardinal. But he was interested. He leaned on his elbow and fixed his unfathomable eyes upon the quivering Bishop.

  “I have no quarrel with Monsieur le Comte’s treatment of his people,” said the Bishop, with a brief, sanctimonious lifting of his eyes. “He has my blessing on the good he has brought to them. Would I be a priest if I objected to huts that do not leak, to wooden tables amply supplied, to fatness on the faces of children, to dancing and singing which are the result of peace and plenty and kindness? It is not these things which trouble me. Too, I must confess that the Comte has been very generous to the Church, and that he urges his people to their religious duties, and that he treats old Père Lovelle as a friend, deeply respected and beloved. Père Lovelle has nothing but the most enthusiastic and enchanted reports of Monsieur le Comte.”

  “Well then,” insisted the Cardinal, with returning impatience.

  The Bishop sighed. His face took upon itself an expression of malignance.

  “The Comte has taken upon himself the task of instructing his people,” he said, with heavy significance.

  “He hopes to convert the Abbé Lovelle and his people to Protestantism?” suggested the Cardinal, with incredulous amusement.

  The Bishop’s malignance increased. He leaned towards the Cardinal, exhaling with vicious agitation. “It pleases your Eminence to make light of my misery,” he said, almost in tears. “No, there has been no subversive attitude on the part of the Comte. He, himself, when he is on his estates, punctiliously attends Mass, followed by his people, and his attitude is reverent in the extreme, though I have heard that he is no true Catholic as was his sainted father. The Abbé Lovelle informs me that the Comte has reverence for all religion.

  “My quarrel with the Comte is not because of any irreligiousness on his part. It is, in a way, deeper than that. Perhaps your Eminence is not aware of his dangerous interference with the life of his peasants, beyond mere benevolence? Your Eminence does not know that the Comte has imported teachers for his people, and that he urges, not only the children to attend classes of instruction—reprehensible enough—but also full-grown men. And women!” he exclaimed, his eyes dilating in expectation of the Cardinal’s astonishment.

  The Cardinal was indeed surprised, but he did not reveal this. He merely waited, with fixed attention.

  The Bishop was fully aroused. The chair creaked under his agitated movements. He flung out his hands. “I informed the Comte that the convent was only too willing to instruct the village girls, and he replied, smiling: ‘In needle-work and household pursuits and farming toil, in order to make them meeker and better servants for those who are in the sight of God vastly their inferiors?’ Your Eminence must fully understand, now, how dangerous is this man!”

  He could hardly breathe, in his rage. “I see his peasants under their trees and about their tables, laboriously spelling out their letters or reading strange books! It has been reported to me that they discuss heretical things in their taverns, and that they question, argue, cogitate about matters not fitted to their stations, and better left in the hands of priests. It has been reported to me that they question the decrees of his Majesty, that they speak disrespectfully and treasonably about your Eminence, that they accept nothing, argue always, and deliver themselves indignantly!”

  He wrung his hands, implored the Cardinal with tear-filled eyes. Then his face took on an expression of horror:

  “It is further reported to me that they say among themselves: ‘Are we not men? Have we not, in the sight of God, equal rights to this France of ours, and her fruits and her wealth and her privileges? Are we not possessed of divine souls, beloved of God as are the souls of magnates and kings, and is not the earth ours as well as theirs, and have we no right to freedom, justice and fraternity? Has God decreed misery, or is this the decree of the Church? And if the latter is true, as the light of reason reveals it to be, why should we then countenance wretchedness and hunger, ignorance and unquestioning obedience, meekness and poverty and humility?’”

  He paused, abruptly, for his breath was choked off. He was beside himself.

  The Cardinal was no longer supercilious or amused. “The Abbé Lovelle has made these reports to you?”

  In spite of his agitation, the Bishop appeared suddenly embarrassed.

  “No, your Eminence. It was a lady.”

  “Madame de Collioure, who fears for her life?”

  “No, your Eminence. I must confess it is another. A lady who lives in an unholy condition with the Comte, a true daughter of the Church, lately converted to Mother Church.” The Bishop dropped his eyes discreetly, a blush bursting over his fat cheeks.

  “Ah,” murmured the Cardinal, leaning back upon his pillows. “The Comte has lately discarded this lady, and she wishes to do him a mischief?”

  “On the contrary, your Eminence. He is still devoted to her. She came to me, weeping, begging for indulgence because of her betrayal of him, and avowing that it was only after long prayer and meditation and searching of her soul that she was induced by her conscience to come to me.”

  “She has probably found another lover,” suggested the Cardinal.

  “Indeed, not, your Eminence! She has every wish to marry the Comte, but, as she is of lowly blood, he will not do this.”

  “But she believes if he is reconciled to the Church, in obedience and meekness, he can be induced, by you, to reward her with his hand?”

  The Bishop’s little pig eyes shifted. He cleared his throat. Then he said with meek defiance: “It would only be just, as your Eminence can perceive.”

  The Cardinal looked at Père Joseph with a faint smile. But the Capuchin’s countenance remained firm.

  “All this is very reprehensible,” mused the Cardinal. He added, drily: “Nevertheless, though it has been done, and frequently, I do not see at this time how a man can be sent to the Bastille for practicing Christian charity among those dependent upon him.”

  “The Bastille—for the Comte de Vitry?” cried the Bishop, paling with horror, and clasping his hands together. “I knew the late Comte well! He was my dearest friend!”

  “Then, Monsieur le Bishop, what would you suggest?”

  The Bishop swallowed, but gazed appealingly at the Capuehin.

  “Monsieur le Bishop is in a delicate situation,” said Père Joseph, angered by the Cardinal’s indifferent calm. “He has thought of removing Père Lovelle, who is sadly in need of discipline, as he obdurately upholds de Vitry in his dangerous work. He is fatuous. But, after all, a de Vitry is a de Vitry, and Monsieur le Bishop hesitates to offend him. The de Vitrys remain the most powerful lords in that locality.”

  “And we are dependent on the support of the de Vitrys,” mused the Cardinal.

  “If Madame de Collioure were but more generous!” said the Bishop.

  “But she is not. Therefore, the chief support of the diocese emanates from Monsieur le Comte, who must be a dexterous young man.”

  “A paradox,” said the Capuchin, with a significant raise of his brows. The Cardinal leaned back on his cushions and fitted his fingers together.

  The Capuchin knew the signs. The Cardinal was preparing to enjoy himself in his usual pleasure of discussing human vagaries.

  “Here we have a young and powerful magnate who is under our suspicion,” said the Cardinal. “His activities in Paris are fully covered in his dossier. He was born and nutured a Catholic. Yet, he is no longer a Catholic, though not yet excommunicated. He is one of the most energetic enemies of the Church. Nevertheless, a Huguenot in practice if not in open avowal, he is devoted to old Père Lovelle, who adores him, and he leads his
peasants into their Church with an ardor and dedication which our more vociferous Catholic lords might emulate. A paradox, you say, my dear Joseph. No, not a paradox. It is not our religion which he despises and wishes to destroy. It is Us.” He smiled thoughtfully. “There are among Us who cannot see the distinction, but it is clear to me. Nor is there confusion in the young Comte’s activities. It is apparent that he believes in faith, in tolerance of all faiths, but is the passionate enemy of any servant of a faith that engages in the pursuit of power, and in the acquisition of temporal authority.”

  “The distinction is plain sophistry,” said the Capuchin.

  The Cardinal inclined his head quizzically, but said nothing. However, after a moment, he made a sign to the Capuchin, who thereupon turned courteously to the bewildered Bishop. “Monsieur le Cardinal requests that you retire, Monsieur, into the ante-chamber, for a few moments.”

  The Bishop, affronted and puzzled, left the chamber.

  The Capuchin returned to the bedside. He was so angered that he forgot his usual respect. “Armand-Jeanne! This is no laughing matter. Surely you can perceive that if this man’s dangerous theories and methods spread among other dioceses France itself, the Church, is ominously endangered. The education and liberation of the masses can result only in impudent defiance of all authority, in atheism and heresy, in constant clamoring and questioning, in confusion, chaos, and the loss of authority in Government and Church. The next step will be demands on the part of the people in their own right, and our ancient system will be demolished.

  “You know, as well as I do, that authority must remain vested in the hands of those ordained by God to retain it—those who by birth and position have inherited this authority. You know that the Church has always upheld the rights of those who have inherited position, or those who have obtained it by her sanction and assistance. To allow even the smallest measure of power to fall into the hands of the anonymous people is contrary to the will of God, and the Church, and will make only for bloody revolutions, heresy and wretchedness.”

  Louis, impelled involuntarily by his own passion, moved to the foot of the bed and looked first at the Capuchin and then at the Cardinal with glowing eyes. The Cardinal gazed absently at the young priest, and again speculated as to the reason for the dark wild hatred on his face.

  “Your imagination, my dear Louis, is running rampant,” observed the Cardinal.

  Père Joseph leaned over the bed and fixed the nonchalant Cardinal with his vehement and terrible eyes.

  “Has Protestantism brought happiness to the people! No! It has brought confusion, doubt and faithlessness. The Church believes in the inherent right of men to happiness, and she knows, in her wisdom, that property and wealth are not necessary to the people’s happiness. The ordinary man can only be bewildered by possessions, for his wants are as simple as his nature. It is the desire of Mother Church, then, to prevent the humble man from obtaining sufficient goods to complicate his life, render him anxious about their security, swell his vanity and greed, and increase his lust for more. She knows that if he obtains all these, he will be a threat to his natural masters, that he will confer final authority and decision and conscience in himself, and not in the Church, and in the State. Anarchy, the death of religious authority, will be the inevitable result.”

  “Do not be so passionate,” said the Cardinal. “Have I disagreed with you, my dear Joseph?”

  The Capuchin vehemently beat the bed with his clenched fist.

  “No! But your Eminence assumes an air of indifference and tolerance which is dangerous! Surely your Eminence perceives that de Vitry is more dangerous in France than a pestilence?”

  The Cardinal was not agitated by all this passion and anger.

  “Let us consider, and cogitate. I am no advocate of the young Comte. But I cannot believe that de Vitry is truly a menace to France. What he advocates has, in a measure, come to pass in England, and from the reports of my agents England is betraying no immediate signs of disintegration and collapse—”

  “But Frenchmen are not Englishmen!” said the Capuchin, with contempt. “The Englishman has icicles for bowels. He is incapable of excesses and passions. Even what small frozen soul he has is held in check by his native caution, his native expediency, his native greed. He is incapable of dedicating his whole heart to any cause; always, he holds back, remembering his precious skin before anything else. ‘How will this affect my shop, my draperies establishment, my tavern, my plot of land, my beer, my fireplace?’ he asks himself. And this question gives him pause. He can devote himself to nothing with burning fervor and selflessness.

  “But the Frenchman is capable of burning up his whole soul in the incandescence of his convictions. He can immolate himself on spits and swords, with a cry of joy. There is frenzy in the Frenchman, a frightful abandon. Let him, therefore, be introduced to strange and catastrophic theories—let him then be convinced—and all that is France, all that is the Church, will be consumed like a feather in a flame. That is our danger. So far, France has been spared a complete conversion to Protestantism, because of the coldness and sterility of that heresy, because it has no drama, no color, no blaze of glory, no passion, no call for sacrifice to the death. But in the theories of de Vitry there is the nucleus of all of these. Men will not sacrifice themselves for a scholarly thesis, but they will sacrifice themselves for other men.”

  “You do not think this noble?” murmured the Cardinal, satirically.

  “I think it dangerous. For France.”

  The Cardinal meditated in silence for several long moments. Then slowly his narrow and aristocratic countenance became even more narrow, tighter, pale with evil.

  “I agree with all you have said,” he remarked at last. The Capuchin drew a deep breath. A relaxation, as of exhaustion, pervaded him. He looked at Louis, who returned that look with satisfaction.

  “Nevertheless, we are, ourselves, in a dangerous and delicate situation,” resumed the Cardinal. “Let us review the facts. The simplest cure for the folly of the Comte de Vitry is to remove old Père Lovelle, who is no doubt a dodderer, and replace him with a sound priest, who will control de Vitry’s people. He will do this with subtlety. But should we remove Père Lovell, this will anger de Vitry, and arouse his suspicions. We must have an adequate excuse.

  “Moreover, de Vitry is a close, if not an intimate friend, of the brother of his Majesty, Prince Gaston. And this Gaston is beloved of the Queen Mother, who would not regard an opportunity to annoy me without joy. Too, de Vitry has other powerful, if lesser, friends. If he is dangerous in quietness, on his estates, he will be the more dangerous if we force him to come out into the open. He might even go to His Majesty, who does not particularly love me at this moment. When personal issues are involved, reason takes a holiday.”

  He meditated deeply, stroking his fingers, turning his left hand so that the magnificent ring upon it sparkled in the golden dusk.

  “If a blow is struck, it must be struck deeply, to the heart. In the event we can remove Père Lovelle and his fatuous influence over de Vitry’s people, who would you suggest? He must be a priest, of necessity, who can be ruthless, merciless, even terrible, under an exterior that is all sweetness and piety.”

  In spite of his triumph, the Capuchin paled a trifle, and in consequence his russet beard seemed to catch fire. The Cardinal gazed at him with a bland half smile, and at last Père Joseph averted his eyes.

  “You think that—such a man—might influence the people against de Vitry? Considering all that the Comte has done for his people?” The Capuchin shook his head with doubt, and his troubled breath was audible.

  The Cardinal patted his friend’s hand lightly. “At the last, my dear Joseph, you are defeated by your conscience.”

  He stared reflectively at the ceiling.

  “It is plain that you do not understand the people. Good

  is an unnatural condition for them. Evil is their natural state. A man would rather, out of his instincts, be vicious, c
ruel, wicked and murderous, than gentle, compassionate, just and tolerant. Man is born evil. The good which generations of priests and wise men have tried to impose upon him sits like a precarious crown of flowers on an ape’s head. A prince who wishes to rule unthreatened must remember this. He has only to deliver a victim into his people’s hands to live in peace himself. We have discovered that with the Jews.

  A malignant expression appeared on his frail but malevolent lips.

  “One of these days,” he murmured, inaudibly, “the people will revenge themselves upon Jesus because He has urged them to rise from all fours and walk erect—a most uncomfortable position.”

  He turned to Père Joseph again. “I repeat—who would you suggest for our campaign against de Vitry? There is a more direct method of course—the complete elimination of de Vitry, a method to which I have given considerable thought. But this would not destroy the influence he has established over his people. He would be canonized as a martyr. No, it must go deeper, to the heart of the people themselves. If there is destroying to be done, they must do it.”

  The Capuchin was silent. His pallor was extreme. The Cardinal watched him, with cynical amusement. It was always his way, when violence and terror were urged upon him, to delegate the final act to the urger. This was frequently demoralizing. It always relieved him, the Cardinal, of responsibility.

  Finally the Capuchin spoke in a low but firm voice: “I have the man. Your Eminence knows him well. Monseigneur Antoine de Pacilli.”

  They gazed at each other intently. Then the Cardinal made a wry face. “Italians have never appealed to me,” he said.

  The Capuchin gestured with angry impatience. “Only his paternal grandfather was an Italian. Your Eminence is well aware of his fanatical devotion, his fervor, his passion—”

  “He was born too late. The Holy Office missed a splendid Inquisitor,” said the Cardinal, provokingly.

  “Moreover, he is practically unknown in Paris,” continued the Capuchin, ignoring this irrelevant comment. “That gives him an advantage. He is a man of brilliance, of learning, of subtlety. He can assume any rôle he desires. Since he arrived in Paris from Rome, he has immured himself, lived a life of the utmost austerity and obscurity among the Franciscan monks. He delivers his life up to prayer, only, and though he has frequently importuned your Eminence for an audience, you have refused this.”