The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

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СКАЧАТЬ replied the Cardinal abstractedly, answering the question mechanically though his thoughts were far away—"I leave for Paris to-morrow."

      "For Paris? And then?"

      "I go to Rome with my niece, Angela Sovrani,—she is in Paris awaiting my arrival now."

      "Ah! You must be very proud of your niece!" murmured the Archbishop softly—"She is famous everywhere,—a great artist!—a wonderful genius!"

      "Angela paints well—yes," said the Cardinal quietly,—"But she has still a great deal to learn. And she is unfortunately much more alone now than she used to be,—her mother's death last year was a terrible blow to her."

      "Her mother was your sister?"

      "My only sister," answered the Cardinal—"A good, sweet woman!—may her soul rest in peace! Her character was never spoilt by the social life she was compelled to lead. My brother-in-law, Prince Sovrani, kept open house,—and all the gay world of Rome was accustomed to flock thither; but now—since he has lost his wife, things have changed very much,—sadness has taken the place of mirth,—and Angela is very solitary."

      "Is she not affianced to the celebrated Florian Varillo?"

      A fleeting shadow of pain darkened the Cardinal's clear eyes.

      "Yes. But she sees very little of him,—you know the strictness of Roman etiquette in such matters. She sees little—and sometimes—so I think—knows less. However, I hope all will be well. But my niece is over sensitive, brilliantly endowed, and ambitious,—at times I have fears for her future."

      "Depression again!" declared the Archbishop, rising and preparing to take his leave—"Believe me, the world is full of excellence when we look upon it with clear eyes;—things are never as bad as they seem. To my thinking, you are the last man alive who should indulge in melancholy forebodings. You have led a peaceful and happy life, graced with the reputation of many good deeds, and you are generally beloved by the people of whom you have charge. Then, though celibacy is your appointed lot, heaven has given you a niece as dear to you as any child of your own could be, who has won a pre-eminent place among the world's great artists, and is moreover endowed with beauty and distinction. What more can you desire?"

      He smiled expansively as he spoke; the Cardinal looked at him steadfastly.

      "I desire nothing!" he answered—"I never have desired anything! I told you before that I consider I have received many more blessings than I deserve. It is not any personal grief which at present troubles me,—it is something beyond myself. It is a sense of wrong,—an appeal for truth,—a cry from those who are lost in the world,—the lost whom the Church might have saved!"

      "Merely fancy!" said the Archbishop cheerily—"Like the music in the Cathedral! Do not permit your imagination to get the better of you in such matters! When you return from Rome, I shall be glad to see you if you happen to come through Normandy on your way back to your own people. I trust you will so far honour me?"

      "I know nothing of my future movements," answered the Cardinal gently,—"But if I should again visit Rouen, I will certainly let you know, and will, if you desire it, accept your friendly hospitality."

      With this, the two dignitaries shook hands and the Archbishop took his leave. As he picked his way carefully down the rough stairs and along the dingy little passage of the Hotel Poitiers, he was met by Jean Patoux holding a lighted candle above his head to show him the way.

      "It is dark, Monseigneur," said Patoux apologetically.

      "It is very dark," agreed Monseigneur, stumbling as he spoke, and feeling rather inclined to indulge in very uncanonical language. "It is altogether a miserable hole, mon Patoux!"

      "It is for poor people only," returned Jean calmly—"And poverty is not a crime, Monseigneur."

      "No, it is not a crime," said the stately Churchman as he reached the door at last, and paused for a moment on the threshold,—a broad smile wrinkling up his fat cheeks and making comfortable creases round his small eyes—"But it is an inconvenience!"

      "Cardinal Bonpre does not say so," observed Patoux.

      "Cardinal Bonpre is one of two things—a saint or a fool! Remember that, mon Patoux! Bon soir! Benedicite!"

      And the Archbishop, still smiling to himself, walked leisurely across the square in the direction of his own house, where his supper awaited him. The moon had risen, and was clambering slowly up between the two tall towers of Notre Dame, her pure silver radiance streaming mockingly against the candle Jean Patoux still held in the doorway of his inn, and almost extinguishing its flame.

      "One of two things—a saint or a fool," murmured Jean with a chuckle—"Well!—it is very certain that the Archbishop is neither!"

      He turned in, and shut his door as far as it would allow him to do so, and went comfortably to bed, where Madame had gone before him. And throughout the Hotel Poitiers deep peace and silence reigned. Every one in the house slept, save Cardinal Bonpre, who with the Testament before him, sat reading and meditating deeply for an hour before retiring to rest. A fresh cause of anxiety had come upon him in the idea that perhaps his slight indisposition was more serious than he had deemed. If, as the Archbishop had said, there could have been no music possible in the Cathedral that afternoon, how came it that he had heard such solemn and entrancing harmonies? Was his mind affected? Was he in truth imagining what did not exist? Were the griefs of the world his own distorted view of things? Did the Church faithfully follow the beautiful and perfect teachings of Christ after all? He tried to reason the question out from a different and more hopeful standpoint, but vainly;—the conviction that Christianity was by no means the supreme regenerating force, or the vivifying Principle of Human Life which it was originally meant to be, was borne in upon him with increasing certainty, and the more he read the Gospels, the more he became aware that the Church—system as it existed was utterly opposed to Christ's own command, and moreover was drifting further and further away from Him with every passing year.

      "The music in the Cathedral may have been my fancy," he said,—"But the discord in the world sounds clear and is NOT imagination. A casuist in religion may say 'It was to be';—that heresies and dissensions were prophesied by Christ, when He said 'Because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall grow cold';—but this does not excuse the Church from the sin of neglect, if any neglects exists. One thing we have never seemed to thoroughly understand, and this is that Christ's teaching is God's teaching, and that it has not stopped with the enunciation of the Gospel. It is going on even now—in every fresh discovery of science,—in every new national experience,—in everything we can do, or think, or plan, the Divine instruction steadily continues through the Divine influence imparted to us when the Godhead became man, to show men how they might in turn become gods. This is what we forget and what we are always forgetting; so that instead of accepting every truth, we quarrel with it and reject it, even as Judaea rejected Christ Himself. It is very strange and cruel;—and the world's religious perplexities are neither to be wondered at nor blamed,—there is just and grave cause for their continuance and increase."

      He closed the Testament, and being thoroughly fatigued in body as well as mind, he at last retired. Lying down contentedly upon the hard and narrow bed which was the best the inn provided, he murmured his usual prayer,—"If this should be the sleep of death, Jesus receive my soul!"—and remained for a little while with his eyes open, looking at the white glory of the moonlight as it poured through his lattice window and formed delicate traceries of silver luminance on the bare wooden floor. He could just see the dark towers of Notre Dame from where he lay,—a СКАЧАТЬ