The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

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      "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.

      "Truly, 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 СКАЧАТЬ