V.
“He has trusted me,” said the Cardinal,— “I have found him, and I cannot — dare not — forsake him. For the Master says ‘Whosoever shall receive one such little child in My name receiveth Me’.”
The next morning broke fair and calm, and as soon as the Patoux household were astir, Cardinal Bonpre sought Madame Patoux in her kitchen, and related to her the story of his night’s adventure. She listened deferentially, but could not refrain from occasional exclamations of surprise, mingled with suggestions of warning.
“It is like your good heart, Monseigneur,” she said, “to give your own bed to a stray child out of the street, — one, too, of whom you know nothing, — but alas! how often such goodness is repaid by ingratitude! The more charity you show the less thanks you receive, — yes, indeed, it is often so! — and it seems as if the Evil One were in it! For look you, I myself have never done a kindness yet without getting a cruelty in exchange for it.”
“That is a sad experience, my daughter,” returned the Cardinal smiling,— “Nevertheless, it is our duty to go on doing kindnesses, no matter what the results to ourselves may be. It is understood — is it not? that we are to be misjudged in this world. If we had nothing to suffer, what would be the use of exercising such virtues as patience and endurance?”
“Ah, Monseigneur, for you it is different,” said Madame Patoux shaking her head and sighing— “You are like the blessed saints — safe in a niche of Holy Church, with Our Lady for ever looking after you. But for poor people such as we are — we see the rough side of life, Monseigneur — and we know that there is very little goodness about in the world, — and as for patience and endurance! — why, no one in these days has the patience to endure even the least contradiction! Two men, — aye even brothers, — will fight for a word like mongrels quarrelling over a bone; — and two women will scream themselves hoarse if one should have a lover more than the other — asking your pardon, Monseigneur, for such wicked talk! Still, wicked as it may be, it is true — and not all the powers of Heaven seem to care about making things better. And for this boy, — believe me, — you had better leave him to his own way — for there will be no chance of getting such a poor little waif into the school unless his father and mother are known, or unless someone will adopt him, which is not likely . . . for Rouen is full of misery, and there are enough mouths to feed in most families — and . . . mon Dieu! — is that the child?”
Thus abruptly she broke off her speech, utterly taken aback as she suddenly perceived the little Manuel standing before her. Poorly clad in the roughest garments as he was, his grace and plaintive beauty moved her heart to quick compassion for his loneliness as he came towards the Cardinal, who, extending one hand, drew him gently to his side and asked if he had slept well?
“Thanks to your goodness, my lord Cardinal,” the boy replied, “I slept so well that I thought I was in Heaven! I heard the angels singing in my dreams; — yes! — I heard all the music of a happy world, in which there never had been known a sin or sorrow!”
He rested his fair head lightly against the Cardinal’s arm and smiled. Madame Patoux gazed at him in fascinated silence, — gazed and gazed, — till she found her eyes suddenly full of tears. Then she turned away to hide them, — but not before Cardinal Bonpre had observed her emotion.
“Well, good MOTHER” he said with gentle emphasis on the word— “Would you have me forsake this child that I have found?”
“No, Monseigneur, — no,” said Madame Patoux very softly and tremulously— “It is almost as if he were a little lost Angel sent to comfort you.”
A curious thrill went through the Cardinal. An angel to comfort him! He looked down at Manuel who still clung caressingly to his arm, and who met his earnest scrutiny with a sweet candid smile.
“Where did you come from, Manuel?” asked Bonpre suddenly.
“I cannot tell you,” the boy answered, straightly, yet simply.
The Cardinal paused a moment, his keen penetrating eyes dwelling kindly on the noble young face beside him.
“You do not wish to tell me, — is that so?” he pursued.
“Yes,” said Manuel quietly— “I do not wish to tell you. And if, because of this, you regret your kindness to me, my lord Cardinal, I will go away at once and trouble you no more.”
But at these words the Cardinal felt such a sharp consciousness of pain and loss that his nerves ached with positive fear.
“Nay, nay, my child,” he said anxiously— “I cannot let you go. It shall be as you please, — I will not think that you could do yourself or me a wrong by concealing what would be right for you to tell. It is true that you are alone in the world?”
“Quite, quite alone!” answered Manuel, a faint shadow darkening the serenity of his eyes— “No one was ever more alone than I!”
Madame Patoux drew nearer and listened.
“And there is no person living who has the right to claim you?”
“None!”
“And is it not strange, Monseigneur,” murmured Madame Patoux at this juncture— “The little lad does not speak as if he were ignorant! It is as though he had been well taught and carefully nurtured.”
Manuel’s deep eyes dwelt upon her with a meditative sweetness.
“I have taught myself;” he said simply— “Not out of books, perhaps, but out of nature. The trees and rivers, the flowers and birds have talked to me and explained many things; — I have learned all I know from what God has told me.”
His voice was so gentle and tender that Madame Patoux was infinitely touched by its soft plaintiveness.
“Poor child!” she murmured,— “He has no doubt been wandering through the country, without a soul to help him. Alas, that troubles should begin for one so young! Perhaps he does not even know a prayer!”
“Oh yes!” said Manuel quickly— “Prayer is like thought, — God is so good that it is only natural to thank and praise Him. Is it not so?”
“It should be natural, my boy,” answered the Cardinal slowly and with a slight accent of melancholy,— “But for many of us in these days I fear it is more natural still to forget than to remember. Too often we take gifts and ignore the giver. But come now and breakfast in my room; — for the present you shall remain with me, and I will see what can best be done for your future welfare.”
And turning to Madame Patoux he added smilingly— “You, my daughter, with children of your own to care for, will no longer blame me for my interest in this child, who is without protection in a somewhat rough world. We of the Church dare not ‘offend one of these little ones’.”
“Ah, Monseigneur!” murmured Madame,— “If all in the Church were like you, some poor folks would believe in God more willingly. But when people are starving and miserable, it is easy to understand that often they will curse the priests and even religion itself, for making such a mock of them as to keep on telling them about the joys of heaven, when they are tormented to the very day of their death on earth, and are left without hope or rescue of any kind—”
But the Cardinal had disappeared with his young charge and Madame’s speech was lost upon him. She had therefore to content herself with relating the story of “Monseigneur’s foundling” to her husband, who just then came into the kitchen to take his breakfast before starting off to work in his market-garden. He listened with interest and attention.
“A boy is always a trouble,” he said sententiously— “And it is likely that so Monseigneur will find it. How old would the child be?”
“About twelve, I should say,” answered Madame— “But beautiful as a little angel, Jean!”
“That’s a pity!” and Patoux shook his head ominously— “Tis bad enough when a girl is beautiful, — but a boy! — Well, well! Monseigneur is a wise man, and a saint they say, — he knows best, — but I fear he has taken a burden upon himself which he will very soon regret! What dost thou think of it, petite?”
Madame hesitated a moment before replying.
“Tru
ly, I do not know what to think,” she answered— “For myself, I have not spoken to the child. I have seen him, — yes! — and at the sight of him a something in my throat rose up and choked me as it were, — and stopped me from saying a rough word. Such a lonely gentle lad! — one could not be harsh with him, and yet—”
“Yet! Oh, yes, I know!” said Patoux, finishing his coffee at a gulp and smiling,— “Women will always be women, — and a handsome face in girl or boy is enough to make fools of them all. Where are the children? Are they gone to school?”
“Yes — they went before the Cardinal was up. ’Tis a Saturday, and they will be back early, — they are going to bring little Fabien Doucet to Monseigneur.”
“What for?” enquired Patoux, his round eyes opening widely in amazement.
“Oh, for a strange fancy! That he may bless the child and pray Our Lady to cure him of his lameness. It was Babette’s whim. I told her the Cardinal was a saint, — and she said, — well! she said she would never believe it unless he worked a miracle! The wicked mischief that girl is! — as bad as Henri, who puts a doubt on everything!”
“’Tis the school,” said Jean gloomily— “I must speak to Pere Laurent.”
“Truly that would be well,” said Madame— “He may explain what we cannot. All the same, you may be sure the children WILL bring Fabien Doucet to Monseigneur; — they have made up their minds about it, — and if the little miserable’s lameness gets no better, we shall have work enough in future to make the saints respected!”
Patoux muttered something inaudible, and went his way. Life was in his opinion, a very excellent thing, — nevertheless there were a few details about it which occasionally troubled him, and one of these details was decidedly the “national education” question. It struck him as altogether remarkable that the State should force him to send his children to school whether he liked it or no; and moreover that the system of instruction at the said school should be totally opposed to his own ideas. He would have certainly wished his son to learn to read and write, and then to have been trained as a thorough florist and gardener; — while for his daughter he also desired reading and writing as a matter of course, and then a complete education in cooking and domestic economy, so that she might be a useful and efficient wife and mother when the proper time for such duties came. Astronomy he felt they could both do without, and most of the “physical sciences.” Religion he considered an absolute necessity, and this was the very thing that was totally omitted from the national course of education. He was well aware that there are countless numbers of unhappy people nowadays who despise religion and mock at the very idea of a God. Every day he saw certain works exposed for sale on the out-of-door bookstalls which in their very titles proclaimed the hideous tone of blasphemy which in France is gradually becoming universal, — but this did not affect his own sense of what was right and just. He was a very plain common man, but he held holy things in reverence, and instinctively felt that, if the world were in truth a bad place, it was likely to become much worse if all faith in God were taken out of it. And when he reached his plot of ground that morning, and set to work as usual, he was, for a non-reflective man, very much absorbed in thought. His heavy tramping feet over the soil startled some little brown birds from their hidden nests, and sent them flying to and fro through the clear air uttering sharp chirrups of terror, — and, leaning on his spade, he paused and looked at them meditatively.
“Everything is afraid,” he said,— “Birds, beasts, and men, — all are afraid of something and cannot tell what it is that frightens them. It seems hard sometimes that there should be so much trouble and struggle just to live — however, the good God knows best, — and if we could not think and hope and believe He knew best, we might just as well light up a charcoal fire, shut all the doors and windows, and say ‘Bon jour! Bon jour, Monsieur le bon Dieu! — for if YOU do not know YOUR business, it is evident we do not know ours, and therefore ’tis best for both our sakes to make an end of sheer Stupidity!’”
He chuckled at his own reasoning, and moistening his hands vigorously, seized his spade and began to bank up a ridge of celery, singing “Bon jour, Monsieur le bon Dieu!” under his breath without the slightest idea of irreverence. And looking up at the bright sky occasionally, he wished he had seen the stray boy rescued from the streets by Cardinal Bonpre.
“That he will be a trouble, there is no doubt,” he said as he turned and patted the rich dark earth— “Never was there a boy born yet into the world that was not a trouble except our Lord, and even in His case His own people did not know what to make of Him!”
Meantime, while Jean Patoux dug in his garden, and sang and soliloquized, his two children, Henri and Babette, their school hours being ended, had run off to the market, and were talking vivaciously with a big brown sturdy woman, who was selling poultry at a stall, under a very large patched red umbrella. She was Martine Doucet, reported to have the worst temper and most vixenish tongue in all the town, though there were some who said her sourness of humour only arose from the hardships of her life, and the many troubles she had been fated to endure. Her husband, a fine handsome man, earning good weekly wages as a stone-mason, had been killed by a fall from a ladder, while engaged in helping to build one of the new houses on the Boulevards, and her only child Fabien, a boy of ten had, when a baby, tumbled from the cart in which his mother was taking her poultry to market, and though no injury was apparent at the time, had, from the effects of the fall, grown into a poor little twisted mite of humanity with a bent spine, and one useless leg which hung limply from his body, while he could scarcely hobble about on the other, even with the aid of a crutch. He had a soft, pretty, plaintive face of his own, the little Fabien, and very gentle ways, — but he was sensitively conscious of his misfortune, and in his own small secret soul he was always praying that he might die while he was yet a child, and not grow up to be a burden to his mother. Martine, however, adored him; and it was through her intense love for this child of hers that she had, in a strange vengeful sort of mood abandoned God, and flung an open and atheistical defiance in the face of her confessor, who, missing her at mass, had ventured to call upon her and seriously reproach her for neglecting the duties of her religion. Martine had whirled round upon him, — a veritable storm in petticoats.
“Religion!” she cried— “Oh — he! What good has it done for ME, if you please! When I said my prayers night and morning, went to mass and confession, and told my rosary every Mary-Feast, what happened? Was not my man killed and my child crippled? And then, — (not to lose faith — ) did I not give the saints every chance of behaving themselves? For my child’s sake did I not earn good money and pay it to the Church in special masses that he might be cured of his lameness? And Novenas in plenty, and candles in plenty to the Virgin, and fastings of my own and penitences? And is the child not as lame as ever? Look at him! — the dear angel! — with never an evil thought or a wicked way, — and will you try to make me believe there is a good God, when He will not help a poor little creature like that, to be happy, though He is prayed to night and morning for it! No — no! Churches are kept up for priests to make a fat living out of, — but there is never a God in them that I can see; — and as for the Christ, who had only to be asked in order to heal the sick, there is not so much as a ghost of Him anywhere! If what you priests tell us were true, poor souls such as I am, would get comfort and help in our sorrows, but it is all a lie! — the whole thing! — and when we are in trouble, we have got to bear it as best we can, without so much as a kind word from our neighbours, let alone any pity from the saints. Go to mass again? Not I! — nor to confession either! — and no more of my earnings will click into your great brass collection plate, mon reverend! Ah no! — I have been a foolish woman indeed, to trust so long in a God who for all my tears and prayers never gives me a sign or a hope of an answer, — and though I suppose this wretched world of ours was made by somebody, whoever it is that has done it is a cruel creature at best, so I say, �
�� without as much good feeling as there is in the heart of an ordinary man, and without the sense of the man either! For who that thinks twice about it would make a world where everything is only born to die? — and for no other use at all! Bah! It is sheer folly and wickedness to talk to me of a God! — a God, if there were one, would surely be far above torturing the creatures He has made, all for nothing!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 461
