The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

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СКАЧАТЬ day—the man who is making such a sensation in England with his 'Addresses to the People.' He is quite an optimist, do you know? He believes in everything and everybody,—even in me!"

      Angela laughed, and her laughter sweet and low, thrilled the air with a sense of music.

      "That is wonderful!" she said gaily,—"Even in you! And how does he manage to believe in you, Monsieur l'Abbe? Do tell me!"

      A little frown wrinkled the Abbe's brow.

      "Well! in a strange way," he responded. "You know he is a very strange man and believes in very strange things. When I treat humanity as a jest—which is really how it should be treated—he looks at me with a grand air of tolerance, 'Oh, you will progress;' he says, 'You are passing through a phase.' 'My dear sir,' I assure him, 'I have lived in this "phase", as you call it, for forty years. I used to pray to the angels and saints and to all the different little Madonnas that live in different places, till I was twenty. Then I dropped all the pretty heaven-toys at once;—and since then I have believed in nothing—myself, least of all. Now I am sixty—and yet you tell me I am only passing through a phase.' 'Quite so,' he answered me with the utmost coolness, 'Your forty years—or your sixty years, are a Moment merely;—the Moment will pass—and you will find another Moment coming which will explain the one which has just gone. Nothing is simpler.' And when I ask him which will be the best Moment,—the one that goes, or the one that comes—he says that I am making the coming Moment for myself—'which is so satisfactory' he adds with that bright smile of his, 'because of course you will make it pleasant!' 'Il faut que tout homme trouve pour lui meme une possibilite particuliere de vie superieure dans l'humble et inevitable realite quotidienne.' I do not find the 'possibilite particuliere'—but this man assures me it is because I do not trouble to look for it. What do you think about it?" Angela's eyes were full of dreamy musing.

      "I think Mr. Leigh's ideas are beautiful," she said, slowly, "I have often heard him talk on the subject of religion—and of art, and of work,—and all he says seems to be the expression of a noble and sincere mind. He is extraordinarily gifted."

      "Yes,—and he is becoming rather an alarming personage in England, so I hear,—" returned the Abbe—"He writes books that are distinctly dangerous, because true. He wants to upset shams like our Socialist writer Gys Grandit. Gys Grandit, you know, will never be satisfied till, like Rousseau, he has brought about another French Revolution. He is only a peasant, they say, but he writes with the pen of a prophet. And this Englishman is of the same calibre,—only his work is directed against religious hypocrisies more than social ones. I daresay that is why I always feel so uneasy in his presence!" And Vergniaud laughed lightly. "For the rest, he is a brilliant creature enough, and thoroughly manly. The other evening at the Club that little Vicomte de Lorgne was chattering in his usual offensive manner about women, and Leigh astonished everyone by the way in which he pulled him up. There was almost a very pretty quarrel,—but a stray man happened to mention casually,—that Leigh was considered one of the finest shots in England. After that the dear Vicomte vanished, and did not return."

      Angela laughed.

      "Poor de Lorgne! Yes—I have heard that Mr. Leigh excels in everything that is distinctly English—riding, shooting, and all that kind of thing. He is not effeminate."

      "Few Englishmen are," said the Abbe,—"And yet to my mind there is something not altogether English in this man. He has none of the heavy British mental and physical stolidity. He is strong and muscular certainly,—but also light and supple,—and with that keen, intellectual delicate face of his, he is more of the antique Greek type than like a son of Les Isles Sans-Soleil."

      "Sans-Soleil," echoed Angela, "But there is plenty of sunshine in

       England!"

      "Is there? Well, I have been unfortunate,—I have never seen any,—" and the Abbe gave a shrug of half regret, half indifference. "It is very curious the effect that this so brave England has upon me! In crossing to its shores I suffer of course from the mal de mer—then when I arrive exhausted to the white cliffs, it is generally raining—then I take train to London, where it is what is called black fog; and I find all the persons that I meet either with a cold, or going to have a cold, or just recovering from a cold! It is not lively—the very funerals are dull. And you—this is not your experience?"

      "No—frankly I cannot say it is," replied Angela, "I have seen rain and fog in Rome that cannot be surpassed for wretchedness anywhere. Italy is far more miserable in cold weather than England. I passed a summer once in England, and it was to me like a glimpse of Paradise. I never saw so many flowers—I never heard so many birds—(you know in Italy we kill all the singing birds and eat them), and I never met so many kind and gentle people."

      "Well!—perhaps the religious sects in England are responsible for the general feeling of depression in the English atmosphere," said the Abbe with a light laugh, "They are certainly foggy! The one round Sun of one Creed is unknown to them. I assure you it is best to have one light of faith, even though it be only a magic lantern,—a toy to amuse the children of this brief life before their everlasting bedtime comes—" He broke off abruptly as a slow step was heard approaching along the passage, and in another moment Cardinal Bonpre entered the room.

      "Ah, le bien aime Felix!" cried Vergniaud, hastening to meet him and clasp his outstretched hand, bowing slightly over it as he did so, "I have taken the liberty to wait for you, cher Monseigneur, being anxious to see you—and I understand your stay in Paris will not be long?"

      "A few days at most, my dear Abbe",—replied the Cardinal, gently pressing the hand of Vergniaud and smiling kindly. "You are well? But surely I need not ask—you seem to be in the best of health and spirits."

      "Ah, my seeming is always excellent," returned the Abbe, "However, I do not fare badly. I have thrown away all hard thinking!"

      "And you are happier so?"

      "Well, I am not quite sure! There is undoubtedly a pleasure in analysing the perplexities of one's own mind. Still, on the whole, it is perhaps better to enjoy the present hour without any thought at all."

      "Like the butterflies!" laughed Angela.

      "Yes,—if butterflies DO enjoy their hour,—which I am not at all prepared to admit. In my opinion they are very dissatisfied creatures,—no sooner on one flower than off they go to another. Very like human beings after all! But I imagine they never worry themselves with philosophical or religious questions."

      "And do you?" enquired Bonpre, smiling, as he sat down in the easy chair his niece placed for him.

      "Not as a rule!—" answered Vergniaud frankly, with a light laugh—"But I confess I have done a little in that way lately. Some of the new sciences puzzle me,—I am surprised to find how closely they approach to the fulfilment of old prophecies. One is almost inclined to believe that there must be a next world and a future life."

      "I think such belief is now placed beyond mere inclination," said the

       Cardinal—"There is surely no doubt of it."

      Vergniaud gave him a quick side-glance of earnest scrutiny.

      "With you, perhaps not—" he replied—"But with me,—well!—it is a different matter. However, it is really no use worrying one's self with the question of 'To be, or not to be.' It drove Hamlet mad, just as the knotty point as to whether Hamlet himself was fat or lean nearly killed our hysterical little boy, Catullus Mendes. It's best to leave eternal subjects like God and Shakespeare alone."

      He laughed again, СКАЧАТЬ