"You would like to hear the story?--ah, take care, mon ange!" he cried, as he perceived Manuel standing lightly near the brink of the platform, and stretching out his arms towards the city, "Thou art not a bird to fly from that edge in the air! What dost thou see?"
"Paris!" replied the boy in strangely sorrowful accents, turning his young, wistful face towards the Cardinal, his hair blown back in the light wind, "All Paris!"
"Ah!--"tis a fine sight, all Paris!" said the old guide--"one of the finest in the world, to judge by the outside of it. But the inside is a very different matter; and if Paris is not a doomed city, then there is no G.o.d, and I know nothing of the Bible. It has got all the old sins in a new shape, and revels in them. And of the story of the priest, if you would hear it;--ah!--that is well!" he said, as Manuel left the giddy verge of the platform where he had been standing, and drew near. "It is safer to be away from that edge, my child! And for the poor priest, it happened in this way,--it was a fair night, and the moon was high--I was dozing off in a chair in my room below, when the bell rang quickly, yet softly. I got up with pleasure, for I said to myself, "here is an artist or a poet,--one of those persons who are unlike anyone else"--just as I am myself unlike anyone else--"and so we two shall have a pleasant evening." But when I opened the door there was no one but a priest, and poor-looking even at that; and he was young and pale, and very uneasy in his manner, and he said to me, "Jean Lapui"--(that is my name)--"let me pa.s.s up to the platform." "Willingly," said I, "if I may go with you." "Nay, I would rather be alone," he answered. "That may not be," I told him, "I am as pleased to see the moonbeams shining on the beasts and devils as any man,--and I shall do you no harm by my company." Well, he agreed to have me then, and up we went the three hundred and seventy-eight steps,--(it is a long way, Monseigneur;--)and he mounted quickly, I slowly,--but always keeping my eye upon him. At last we reached this platform, and the moonlight was beautiful, and clear as day. Then my little priest sat down and began to laugh. "Ha, my Lapui!" he said, "Is it not droll that this should be all a lie! All this fine building, and all the other fine buildings of the kind in Paris! Strange, my Lapui, is it not, that this Cathedral should be raised to the worship of a G.o.d whom no one obeys, or even thinks of obeying! All show, my good Lapui! All to feed priests like me, and keep them going--but G.o.d has nothing to do with it--nothing at all, I swear to you!"--"You may be right, mon reverend," I said, (for I saw he was not in a mood to be argued with)--"Yet truly the Cathedral has not always been a place of holiness. In seventeen ninety-three there was not much of our Lord or the blessed Saints in it." "No, you are right, Lapui!" he cried, "Down came the statue of the Virgin, and up went the statue of Liberty! There was the crimson flare of the Torch of Truth!--and the effigies of the ape Voltaire and the sensualist Rousseau, took the places of St. Peter and St. Paul! Ha!--And they worshipped the G.o.ddess of Reason--Reason, impersonated by Maillard the ballet-dancer! True to the life, my Lapui!--that kind of worship has lasted in Paris until now!--it goes on still--Reason,--man"s idea of Reason,--impersonated by a ballet dancer! Yes,--the shops are full of that G.o.ddess and her portraits, Jean Lapui! And the jewellers can hardly turn out sufficient baubles to adorn her shrine!" He laughed again, and I took hold of him by the arm. "See here, pet.i.t pere," I said, "I fancy all is not well with you." "You are right," he answered, "all is very ill!" "Then will you not go home and to bed?" I asked him.
"Presently--presently;" he said, "if I may tell you something first!"
"Do so by all means, reverend pere," said I, and I sat down near him.
"It is just this, Lapui," and he drew out a crucifix from his breast and looked at it very earnestly, "I am a priest, as you see; and this symbol represents my faith. My mother told me that to be a priest and to serve G.o.d was the highest happiness that could befall a man. I believed it,--and when I look at the stars up there crowding around us in such vast circles,--when I look at all this moonlight and the majesty of creation around me, I believe it still! Up here, it seems there MAY be a G.o.d; down there," and he pointed towards the streets, "I know there is a devil! But I have discovered that it is no use telling the people about G.o.d, because they do not believe in Him. They think I am telling them a lie because it is my metier to tell lies. And also because they think I have neither the sense nor the ability to do anything else. They know they are telling lies themselves all day and every day. Some of them pretend to believe, because they think it best to be on the safe side even by feigning,--and they are the worst hypocrites. It drives me mad, Lapui, to perform Ma.s.s for liars! If it were only unbelievers! but liars!--liars! Liars who lie on their death-beds, telling me with mock sighs of penitence that they believe in G.o.d when they do not! I had a dream last night--you shall tell me if I was mistaken in it,--it was a dream of this very tower of Notre Dame.
I was up here as I am now--and the moonlight was around me as it is now--and I thought that just behind the wing of that third angel"s head carved yonder--do you see?" and he got up and made me get up too, and turned me round with his hand on my shoulder--"a white dove had made its resting-place. Is there a white dove there, Lapui? If there is I shall be a happy man and all my griefs will be at an end! Will you go and look--and tell me if there is a white dove nestling there? Then I will say good-night to you and go home." G.o.d forgive me!--I thought to humor him in his fancy, and so I left him to walk those five steps--only five at the utmost--and see if perhaps among the many doves that fly about the towers, it might not be that a white one, as he said, should have chosen to settle in the place he pointed out to me, "for," thought I, "he will be quiet then and satisfied." And like a blind fool I went--and when I came back the platform was empty!--Ah, Monseigneur!--he had said good-night indeed, and gone home!"
"You mean that he flung himself from this parapet?" said Bonpre, in a low, horrified tone.
"That was the way of it, Monseigneur," said Lapui commiseratingly,--"His body was found next day crushed to bits on the pavement below; but somehow no one troubled much about it, or thought he had thrown himself from the tower of Notre Dame. It was said that he had been murdered and thrown out of a window, but n.o.body knew how or when. Of course I could have spoken, but then I should have got into trouble. And I avoid trouble whenever I can. A very strange thing it is that no one has ever been suspected of leaping from Notre Dame into the next world since Victor Hugo"s great story was written. "It is against the rules," say the authorities, "to mount the towers at night." True, but rules are not always kept. Victor Hugo"s "Quasimodo," who never lived, is the only person the wiseacres a.s.sociate with such a deed. And I,--I could tell many a strange story; only it is better to be silent!
Life is hard living,--and when a priest of the Church feels there is no G.o.d in this world, why what is there left for him except to try and find out if there is in the next?"
"Suicide is not the way to find Heaven," said the Cardinal gravely.
"Maybe not,--maybe not," and the old custodian turned to lead the way down the steps of the tower, "But when the brain is gone all through grief at losing G.o.d, it may chance that G.o.d sees the conditions of things, and has mercy. Events happen in this world of such a kind as to make anyone who is not a saint, doubt the sense as well as the goodness of the Creator,--of course that is a wicked thing to say, for we make our own evils, no doubt--"
"That is very certain," said the Cardinal, "The unhappy man you have told me of should have trusted G.o.d to the end, whether those whom he preached to, believed his message or not. Their conduct was not his business,--his task was to declare, and not to judge."
"Now that is very well put!" and the old man paused on the stairway and looked round approvingly. "Of course that is said as only a wise man could say it, for after all, Christ Himself did not judge any one in any case. He came to save us all, not to punish us."
"Then why does not everyone remember that, and try to save one another rather than to condemn?" asked Manuel suddenly.
They had reached the bottom of the tower stairway, and old Jean Lapui, shading his eyes from the glare of the daylight with one wrinkled hand, looked at the boy with a smile of compa.s.sionate interest.
"Why does not everyone remember? Why does not everyone do as He did?
Ah, that is a question! You are young, and you will find out many answers to it before you are much older. One fact is sure,--that if everybody did remember Him and lived exactly as He wished, we should have a new Heaven and a new Earth; and I will tell you something else,"
and the old fellow looked sly and mischievous, "No offence meant--no offence!--but there would be no churches and no priests! Believe me, I speak the truth! But this would be a great happiness; and is not to be our portion yet! Good-day, Monseigneur!--A thousand pardons for my wicked speech! Good-day!"
"Good-day!" responded the Cardinal gently, "Be careful of your night visitors, my friend! Do not for the future leave them alone to plunge into the Infinite without a warning!"
The old man smiled deprecatingly.
"Truly, Monseigneur, I am generally careful. I do not know when I have spoken so freely to anyone as I have to you; for I am generally in a bad humour with all Church dignitaries,--and of course I know you for a Cardinal by your dress, while you might truly be a saint from your manner;--so I should have held my tongue about the flight into the air of the little priest. But you will say nothing, for you are discreet; and even if you did, and I were asked about it, I should know nothing.
Oh, yes, I can tell lies as fast as anybody else!--Yes, truly! I do not suppose anyone, not even an Archbishop himself, could surpa.s.s me in lying!"
"And are you not ashamed to lie?" asked Bonpre, with an intense vibration of pain in his voice as he put the question.
"Heaven bless you, no, Monseigneur!" replied Lapui cheerfully, "For is not the whole world kept going by lies? Dear me, if we all told the truth there would be an end of everything! I am a philosopher in my way, Monseigneur,--and I a.s.sure you that a real serious truth told in Paris without any gloss upon it, would be like an earthquake in the city,--great houses would come down and numbers of people would be killed by it! Good-day, Monseigneur!--Good-day."
And still smiling and chuckling, the custodian of the North tower retired into his den there to await fresh visitors. The Cardinal walked slowly to the corner of the street where his carriage awaited him,--his head bent and his eyes downcast; Manuel stepped lightly along beside him, glancing at his pale face from time to time with a grave and tender compa.s.sion. When they were seated in the vehicle and driving homewards the boy spoke gently--
"You grieve too much for others, dear friend! You are now distressed because you have heard the story of one unhappy man who sought to find G.o.d by self-destruction, and you are pained also lest another man should lose G.o.d altogether by the deliberate telling of lies. All such mistakes and follies of the world weigh heavily on your heart, but they should not do so,--for did not Christ suffer all this for you when He was crucified?"
The Cardinal sighed deeply.
"Yes, my child, but He told us plainly WHY He suffered. It was that we might learn to follow Him, and that there should be less suffering for the future. And surely we have not obeyed Him, or there could not be so much pain and difficulty in the world as there is now."
"If He come again, you think He would be grieved and disappointed in His followers?" queried Manuel softly.
"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 gra.s.sy 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 acc.u.mulate,--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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sembles 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 compa.s.sion 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.