The Archbishop's handsome face crimsoned.

"You amaze me by such an expression!" he said, raising his voice a little in the indignation he could scarcely conceal--"you talk--pardon me--as if you yourself were uncertain of the Church's ability to withstand unbelief."

"I speak but as I think," answered the Cardinal gently. "And I admit I AM uncertain. In the leading points of reed I am very steadfastly convinced;--namely, that Christ was divine, and that the following of His Gospel is the saving of the immortal soul. But if you ask me whether I think we do truly follow that Gospel, I must own that I have doubts upon the matter."

"An elected favourite son of the Church should surely have no doubts!"

said the Archbishop.

"Ah, there you come back to the beginning from which we started, when I ventured to object to your term 'prince of the Church.' According to our Master, all men should be equal before Him; therefore we err in marking differences of rank or favoritism in questions of religion. The very idea of rank is anti-Christian."

At this the Archbishop began to look seriously annoyed.

"I am afraid you are indulging in very unorthodox ideas," he said with impatience--"In fact I consider you altogether mistake your calling and position."

These were the words which had reached the attentive ears of the Patoux children on their way up to bed, and had caused Henri to declare that the Archbishop and the Cardinal were quarrelling. Felix Bonpre took the somewhat violent remark, however, with perfect equanimity.

"Possibly I may do so," he responded peaceably. "We are all subject to error. My calling, as I take it, is that of a servant of Christ, whose instructions for work are plainly set down in His own words. It is for me to follow these instructions as literally and exactly as I can. With regard to my position, I am placed as the spiritual head of a very small diocese, where the people for the most part lead very innocent and harmless lives. But I should be selfish and narrow in spirit if I allowed myself to limit my views to my own circle of influence. My flock are mere rustics in intellectual capacity, and have no conception of the manner in which the larger tide of human events is flowing. Now and then one or two of the people grow weary of their quiet pastures and woodlands,--and being young, hopeful, and ardent, start forth into the great world, there to seek fairer fortunes. Sometimes they come back to their old homes. Far more frequently they never return. But those who do come back are changed utterly. I recognise no more the young men and maidens whom I confirmed in their faith, and laid my hands on in blessing ere they fared forth to other lives and scenes.

The men are grown callous and worldly; without a heart,--without a thought,--save for the gain or loss of gold. The women are--ruined!"

He paused a moment. The Archbishop said nothing.

"I love my people," went on the Cardinal pathetically--"No child is baptised in our old Cathedral without my praying for its future good,--without my hope that it may grow into that exquisite mingling of the Divine and Human which our Lord taught us was the perfection of life, and His desire to see fulfilled in those He called His own.

Yes,--I love my people!--and when any of them go away from me, and then return to the scenes of their childhood broken-hearted, I cannot meet them with reproach. My own heart is half broken to see them thus cast down. And their sorrows have compelled me naturally to meditate on the sorrows of others,--to consider what it is in the world which thus corrodes the pure gold of innocence and robs life of its greatest charm. For if Christ's spirit ruled us all, then innocence should be held more sacred. Life should engender happiness. I have studied, read, and thought long, upon these matters, so that I not only feel, but know the truth of what I say. Brother!--" and the Cardinal, strongly moved, rose suddenly and confronted the Archbishop with a pa.s.sionate gesture--"My great grief is that the spirit of Christ does NOT rule the world! Christ is being re-crucified by this generation! And the Church is looking on, and silently permitting His second murder!"

Startled by the force of this expression, the Archbishop sprang up in his turn, his lips parted as if to speak--then--his angry glance met the clear, calm, steadfast look of Felix Bonpre, and he faltered. His eyes drooped--and his ma.s.sive figure seemed for a moment to shrink with a sort of abas.e.m.e.nt. Like an inspired apostle the Cardinal stood, one hand outstretched,--his whole frame sentient with the strong emotion which possessed him.

"You know that what I say is true," he continued in quieter but no less intensely pa.s.sionate accents--"You know that every day sees our Master crowned with new thorns and exposed to fresh torture! You know that we do nothing!--We stand beside Him in His second agony as dumb as though we were unconscious of it! You know that we MIGHT speak and will not!

You know that we fear the ephemera of temporary governments, policies, and social conventionalities, more than the great, real, and terrible judgment of the world to come!"

"But all these things have been said before," began the Archbishop, recovering a little from the confusion that had momentarily seized him,--"And as I just now observed, you should remember that there have always been heretics from the very beginning."

"Oh, I remember!" and the Cardinal sighed, "How is it possible that any of us should forget! Heretics, whom we have tortured with unheard-of agonies and burned in the flames, as a proof of our love and sympathy with the tenderness of Christ Jesus!"

"You are going too far back in time!" said the Archbishop quickly. "We erred in the beginning through excess of zeal, but now--now--"

"Now we do exactly the same thing," returned Bonpre--"Only we do not burn physically our heretics, but morally. We condemn all who oppose us. Good men and brave thinkers, whom in our arrogance we consign to eternal d.a.m.nation, instead of endeavouring to draw out the heart of their mystery, and gather up the gems of their learning as fresh proofs of the active presence of G.o.d's working in, and through all things!

Think of the Church's invincible and overpowering obstinacy in the case of Galileo! He declared the existence of G.o.d to us by the utterance of a Truth,--inasmuch as every truth is a new message from G.o.d. Had he p.r.o.nounced his theories before our divine Master, that Master would have confirmed, not denied them! Have we one single example of Christ putting to the torture any poor soul that did not believe in Him?

Nay--He Himself submitted to be tortured; but for those who wronged Him, His prayer was only--'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO! The ministers of truth should rather suffer themselves than let others suffer. The horrors of the Inquisition are a blot on religious history; our Master never meant us to burn and torture men into faith. He desired us to love and lead them into the way of life as the shepherd leads a flock into the fold. I repeat again, there would have been no room for atheism if we--we--the servants of Christ, had been strictly true to our vocation."

By this time the Archbishop had recovered his equanimity. He sat down and surveyed the up-standing figure of the Cardinal with curiosity and a touch of pity.

"You think too much of these things," he said soothingly--"You are evidently overwrought with study and excessive zeal. Much that you say may be true; nevertheless the Church--OUR Church--stands firm among overwhelming contradictions,--and we, its ministers, do what we can. I myself am disposed to think that the mult.i.tude of the saved is greater than the mult.i.tude of the lost."

"I envy you the consolation such a thought must give," responded the Cardinal, as he resumed his seat opposite his visitor--"I, on the contrary, have the pained and bitter sense that we are to blame for all this 'mult.i.tude of the lost,' or at any rate that we could have done more in the way of rescue than we have done." He paused a moment, pa.s.sing one hand across his forehead wearily. "In truth this is what has for a long time weighed upon my mind, and depressed my spirits even to the detriment of bodily health. I am nearing the grave, and must soon give an account of my stewardship;--and the knowledge of the increasing growth of evil in the world is almost more than I can bear."

"But you are not to blame," said the Archbishop wonderingly,--"In your own diocese you have fulfilled your duty; more than this is not expected of you. You have done your best for the people you serve,--and reports of your charities and good works are not lacking--"

"Do not credit such reports," interrupted the Cardinal, almost sternly,--"I have done nothing--absolutely nothing! My life has been too peaceful,--too many undeserved blessings have been bestowed upon me. I much fear that the calm and quiet of my days have rendered me selfish. I think I should long ago have sought some means of engaging in more active duties. I feel as if I should have gone into the thick of the religious contest, and spoken and fought, and helped the sick and wounded of the mental battle,--but now--now it is too late!"

"Nothing is too late for one in your position," said the Archbishop--"You may yet sit in St. Peter's chair!"

"G.o.d forbid!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Bonpre fervently--"I would rather die! I have never wished to rule,--I have only sought to help and to comfort. But sixty-eight years of life weigh heavily on the faculties,--I cannot wear the sword and buckler of energetic manhood. I am old--old!--and to a certain extent, incapacitated for useful labour. Hence I almost grudge my halcyon time spent among simple folk,--time made sweet by all the surroundings of Nature's pastoral loveliness;--the sorrow of the wider world knocks at my heart and makes it ache! I feel that I am one of those who stand by, idly watching the Master's second death without one word of protest!"

The archbishop listened in silence. There was a curious shamed look upon his face, as if some secret sin within himself had suddenly been laid bare in all its vileness to the light of day. The golden crucifix he wore moved restlessly with a certain agitated quickness in his breathing, and he did not raise his eyes, when, after a little pause, he said--

"I tell you, as I told you before, that you think too much; you are altogether too sensitive. I admit that at the present day the world is full of terrible heresies and open blasphemy, but this is part of what we are always bound to expect,--we are told that we must 'suffer for righteousness' sake--'"

"We!" said the Cardinal--"Yes, WE! that is, OURSELVES;--the Church--WE think, when we hear of heresies and blasphemies that it is we who are 'suffering for righteousness' sake,' but in our egotism we forget that WE are not suffering at all if we are able to retain our faith! It is the very heretics and blasphemers whom we condemn that are suffering--suffering absolute tortures--perchance 'for righteousness'

sake'!"

"Dare we call a heretic 'righteous'?" enquired the Archbishop--"Is he not, in his very heresy, accursed?"

"According to our Lord, no one is accursed save traitors,--that is to say those who are not true. If a man doubts, it is better he should admit his doubt than make a pretence of belief. The persons whom we call heretics may have their conception of the truth,--they may say that they cannot accept a creed which is so ignorant of its own tenets as to condemn all those who do not follow it,--inasmuch as the very Founder of it distinctly says--'If any man hear my words and believe not, I judge him not; for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.' Now we, His followers, judge, but do not save. The atheist is judged by us, but not rescued from his unbelief; the thinker is condemned,--the scientist who reveals the beauty and wisdom of G.o.d as made manifest in the composition of the lightning, or the germinating of a flower, is accused of destroying religion. And we continue to pa.s.s our opinion, and thunder our vetoes and bans of excommunication against our fellowmen, in the full front of the plain command 'Judge not, that ye be not judged'!"

"I see it is no use arguing with you," said the Archbishop, forcing a smile, with a vexation the smile could not altogether conceal,--"You are determined to take these sayings absolutely,--and to fret your spirit over the non-performance of imaginary duties which do not exist.

This Church is a system,--founded on our Lord's teaching, but applied to the needs of modern civilization. It is not humanly possible to literally obey all Christ's commands."

"For the outside world I grant it may be difficult,--but for the ministers of religion, however difficult it may be, it should be done,"

replied the Cardinal firmly. "I said this before, and I deliberately maintain it. The Church IS a system,--but whether it is as much founded on the teaching of our Lord, who was divine, as on the teaching of St.

Paul, who was NOT divine, is a question to me of much perplexity."

"St. Paul was directly inspired by our Lord," said the Archbishop--"I am amazed that you should even hint a doubt of his apostleship!"

"I do not decry St. Paul," answered Bonpre quietly--"He was a gifted and clever man, but he was a Man--he was not G.o.d-in-Man. Christ's doctrine leaves no place for differing sects; St. Paul's method of applying that doctrine serves as authority for the establishment of any and every quarrelsome sect ever known!"

"I cannot agree with you," said the Archbishop coldly.

"I do not expect to be agreed with"--and Bonpre smiled a little--"An opinion which excites no opposition at all is not worth having! I am quite honest in my scruples, such as they are;--I do not think we fit, as you say, the Church system to the needs of modern civilization. On the contrary, we must fail in many ways to do this, else there would not be such a crying out for help and comfort as there is at present among all Christian peoples. We no longer speak with a grand certainty as we ought to do. We only offer vague hopes and dubious promises to those who thirst for the living waters of salvation and immortality,--it is as if we did not feel sure enough of G.o.d ourselves to make others sure. All this is wrong--wrong! It forebodes heavy punishment and disaster. If I were younger, I could express perhaps my meaning more clearly,--but as it is, my soul is weighted with unutterable thoughts,--I would almost call them warnings,--of some threatening evil; . . . and today--only this afternoon--when I sat for an hour in the Cathedral yonder and listened to the music of the great organ--"

The Archbishop started.

"What did you say?"

The Cardinal repeated his words gently,--

"I said that I sat in the Cathedral and listened to the music of the great organ--"

"The great organ!" interrupted the Archbishop,--"You must have been dreaming! You could not possibly have heard the great organ,--it is old and all out of gear;--it is never used. The only one we have for service just now is a much smaller instrument in the left-hand choir-chapel,--but no person could have played even on that without the key. And the key was un.o.btainable, as the organist is absent from the town to-day."

The Cardinal looked completely bewildered.

"Are you quite sure of this?" he asked falteringly.

"Sure--absolutely sure!" declared the Archbishop with a smile--"No doubt you thought you heard music; overwrought nerves often play these tricks upon us. And it is owing to this same cause that you are weary and dispirited, and that you take such a gloomy view of the social and religious outlook. You are evidently out of health and unstrung;--but after you have had sufficient rest and change, you will see things in quite a different aspect. I will not for a moment believe that you could possibly be as unorthodox as your conversation would imply,--it would be a total misconception of your true character," and the Archbishop laughed softly. "A total misconception," he repeated,--"Why, yes, of course it would be! No Cardinal-Archbishop of Holy Mother Church could bring such accusations against its ministry as you would have suggested, unless he were afflicted by nervous depression, which, as we all know, has the uncomfortable effect of creating darkness even where all is light. Do you stay long in Rouen?"

"No," replied the Cardinal abstractedly, answering the question mechanically though his thoughts were far away--"I leave for Paris to-morrow."

"For Paris? And then?"