by Eugène Sue
Christian’s son was almost eighteen years of age. His once open, happy and blooming face, that breathed frankness, had become pale and somber; his unsteady, restless eyes seemed to eschew observation. The unexpected presence of his parents seemed at first to cause him a painful impression; he looked embarrassed; but doubtlessly calling himself to account for the unguarded impulse of false shame, he said resolutely without raising his eyes:
“I was administering a discipline to myself — I thought I was alone — I was fulfilling a penance—”
“My son,” replied the artisan, “seeing that you are up, sit down upon that chair — your mother and I have serious matters to speak about with you; we shall be better here than upstairs, where our voice might wake up your sister.”
Not a little astonished, the lad sat down, on a stool. Christian also sat down; Bridget remained standing near her husband, leaning upon his shoulder, with her eyes resting compassionately upon her son.
“My boy,” said Christian, “I wish, first of all, to assure you that neither I nor your mother have ever thought of crossing you in the religious practices that you have of late been indulging in with all the impetuous ardor of a neophyte. But seeing that the occasion presents itself, I wish to make some observations to you upon the subject in all fatherly love.”
“I listen, father; speak.”
“You, as well as your sister and brother, have been brought up by us in the evangelical doctrine — love one another, do not unto others what you would not like to be done to, pardon those who trespass against you, pity the sinners, help the sorrowful, honor those who repent, be industrious and honest. These few words sum up the eternal morality that your mother and myself have preached and held up to you since your infancy as the example to be followed. When you reached riper years of intelligence I sought to inculcate in your mind that belief of our fathers that we are immortal, body and soul, and that after what is called death, a moment of transition between the existence that ends and that which begins, we are born again, or, rather, continue to live, spirit and matter, in other spheres, thus rising successively, at each of those stages of our eternal existence, towards infinite perfection equal to that of the Creator.”
“That, father, is heresy, and flies in the face of Catholic dogma.”
“Be it so. I do not force the belief upon you. Every man is free to strive in his religious aspirations after his own ideal of the relations between the Creator and the creature. The freedom to do so is the most priceless attribute of the soul, the sublimest right of human conscience.”
“There is no religion in the world beside the Catholic religion, the revealed religion,” put in Hervé in a sharp voice. “All other belief is false—”
“My friend,” said Christian interrupting his son, “I do not wish to enter into a theological discussion with you. You have of late lost your former happy disposition, you seem to mistrust us, you grow more and more reserved and taciturn, your absences from the printing shop are becoming frequent and are prolonged beyond all measure; your nature, once so pleasant and buoyant, has become irritable and sour, even to the point of rudeness towards your brother Odelin before his departure for Milan. Besides that and since, your asperity towards your sister is ever more marked — and yet you know that she loves you dearly.”
At these last words a thrill ran over Hervé’s frame. At the mention of his sister, his physiognomy grew more intensely somber and assumed an undefinable expression. For a moment he remained silent, whereupon his voice, that sounded sharp and positive shortly before in his answers regarding religious matters, became unsteady as he stammered:
“At times I am subject to fits of bad humor that I pray God to free me of. If — I have been — rude — to my sister — it is without meaning to. I entertain a strong affection for her.”
“We are certain of that, my child,” Bridget replied; “your father only mentions the circumstance as one of the symptoms of the change that we notice in you, and that so much alarms us.”
“In short,” Christian proceeded, “we regret to see you give up the company of the friends of your childhood, and no longer share the innocent pleasures that become your age.”
Hervé’s voice, that seemed so much out of his control when his sister Hena was the topic, became again harsh and firm:
“The friends whom I formerly visited are worldly, they are running to perdition; the thoughts that to-day engage me are not theirs.”
“You are free to choose your connections, my friend, provided they be honorable. I see you have become an intimate friend of Fra Girard, the Franciscan monk—”
“God sent him across my path — he is a saint! His place is marked in paradise.”
“I shall not dispute the sanctity of Fra Girard; he is said to be a man of probity, and I believe it. I must admit, however, that I would have preferred to see you form some other friendship; the monk is several years your senior; you seem to have a blind faith in him; I fear lest the fervor of his zeal may render you intolerant, and lead you to share his own excessive religious exaltation. For all that, I never reproached you for your intimacy with Fra Girard—”
“Despite anything that you could have done or said, father, I would have seen to my own salvation. God before the family.”
“And do you imagine, my son, that we could be opposed to your welfare?” asked Bridget in an accent of affectionate reproach. “Do you not know how much we love you? Are not all our thoughts dictated by our attachment to you? Can you doubt our affection?”
“Happiness lies in the faith, and the faith comes to us from heaven. There is no welfare outside of the bosom of the Church.”
“It would have become you better to answer your mother’s kind words with other terms,” observed Christian, as he saw his wife hurt and saddened by the harshness of Hervé’s words. “If your faith comes from heaven, filial love also is a celestial sentiment; may God forfend that it be weakened in your heart — in fine, may God forfend that Fra Girard’s influence over you should tend to pervert, despite himself and despite yourself, your sense of right and wrong.”
“I do not understand you, father.”
The artisan cast a significant look at Bridget, who, guessing her husband’s secret thoughts, felt assailed by mortal anguish.
“I shall explain myself more clearly,” Christian continued. “Do you remember a few days ago at the shop when some of our fellow workmen expressed indignation at the traffic in indulgences?”
“Yes, father; and I withered the blasphemous utterances with the contempt that they deserved. Indulgences open the gates of heaven.”
“One of our fellow workingmen loudly likened the commerce in indulgences to a theft,” Christian proceeded, unable completely to overcome his emotion, while Bridget in vain sought to catch the eyes of her son, who, from the start of this conversation held his eyes nailed to the floor. “Upon hearing so severe an opinion expressed upon the indulgences,” Christian added, “you, my son, shouted that all money, even if it proceeded from theft, became holy if devoted to pious works; you said so, did you not? You thereby justified a reprehensible action.”
“It is my conviction.”
After a momentary silence the artisan again resumed:
“My boy, you were surely awakened to-night, as we ourselves were, by the noise of the procession. It was the procession of indulgences.”
“Yes, father — and in order to render my prayers for the deliverance of the souls in purgatory more efficacious, I macerated myself.”
“The monks claim that the souls in purgatory can be ransomed by money; do they not make the claim?”
“It is the doctrine of the Catholic Church, father. The Church can not err.”
“Hervé, let me suppose that you find on the street a purse full of gold; would you believe yourself justified to dispose of it in behalf of the souls in purgatory, without first inquiring after the rightful owner of the purse?”
“I would not hesitate a minute to do what yo
u said. I would take it to the Church.”
Christian and Bridget exchanged looks of distress at this answer. Their suspicions were almost confirmed. They now counted at least with Hervé’s frankness. Convinced that all means were legitimate in order to compass the salvation of souls in pain, he would assuredly admit the theft. The artisan proceeded:
“My son, we never set you the example of duplicity. Particularly at this moment when we must appeal to your frankness, we shall speak without circumlocution. I have this to say to you: The fruits of your mother’s laborious savings and my own have been recently purloined; the sum amounted to twenty gold crowns.”
Hervé remained impassable and silent.
“The theft was committed yesterday or the day before,” pursued Christian, painfully affected by his son’s impassiveness. “The money was deposited in the case in our bedroom, and could have been taken away by none except a person familiar in our house.”
With his hands crossed over his knees and his eyes on the floor, Hervé remained silent, impenetrable.
“Your mother and I first cudgeled our brains to ascertain who could have committed the guilty act,” Christian proceeded, driving the point nearer and nearer home, and he added slowly, accentuating these last words: “It then occurred to us that, seeing the theft was justifiable by your convictions — that is to say, that it was legitimate if committed for the sake of some pious work — you might — in a moment of mental aberration — have appropriated the sum for the purpose of consecrating it to the ransoming of souls in purgatory.”
The husband and wife awaited their son’s answer with mortal anxiety. Christian watched him closely and observed that, despite Hervé’s apparent impassiveness, a slight flush suffused his face; although the lad did not raise his eyes, he cast furtive glances at his parents. The somber and guilty glances, caught by Christian, surprised and distressed him. He no longer doubted his son’s guilt, he even despaired of drawing from the lad a frank admission that might somewhat have extenuated the ugly action. Christian continued with a penetrating voice:
“My son, I have acquainted you with the painful suspicions that weigh upon our hearts — have you no answer to make?”
“Father,” said Hervé firmly and tersely, “I have not touched your money.”
“He lies,” thought the desolate artisan to himself; “it is our own son who committed the theft.”
“Hervé,” cried Bridget with her face bathed in tears and throwing herself at the feet of her son, around whom she threw her arms, “my son, be frank — we shall not scold you! Good God, we believe in the sincerity of your new convictions — they are your only excuse! You certainly must have believed that with the aid of that money, which lay idle on the shelf of the book-case, you might redeem poor souls from the tortures of purgatory. The charitable purpose of such a superstition might, aye, it is bound to, carry away a young head like yours. I repeat to you; we shall look upon that as your excuse; we shall accept the excuse, in the hope of leading you back again to more wholesome ideas of good and evil. From your point of view, so far from your action being wrongful, it must have seemed meritorious to you. Why not admit it? Is it shame that restrains you, my poor boy? Fear not. The secret will remain with your father and me.” And embracing the lad with maternal warmth, Bridget added: “Do not the principles in which we brought you up make us feel sure that, despite your temporary blindness, you will know better in the future? Could you possibly become confirmed in dishonesty, you, my son? You who until now gave us so much cause for happiness? Come, Hervé, make a manly effort — tell us the truth — you will thereby change our sorrow into joy; your confession will prove your frankness and your confidence in our indulgence and tenderness. You still are silent? — not a word — you have not a word for me?” cried the wretched woman, seeing her son remaining imperturbable. “What! we who should complain, are imploring you! You should be in tears, and yet it is I alone who weep! You should be at our feet, and I am at yours! And yet you remain like a piece of icy marble! Oh, unhappy child!”
“Mother,” repeated Hervé with inflexible voice without raising his eyes, “I have not touched your money.”
In despair at such insensibility, Bridget rose and threw herself convulsively sobbing into the arms of her husband: “I am a mother to be pitied.”
“My son,” now said Christian in a severe tone, “if you are guilty — and I regret but too deeply that I fear you are — learn this: Even if you should have employed the money that has been purloined from my room in what you term ‘pious works,’ you would not therefore be less guilty of a theft, do you understand? — a theft in all the disgraceful sense of the word! I was not mistaken! It has turned out so! By means of unworthy sophisms, your friend Fra Girard has perverted your one-time sense of right and wrong! Oh, whatever insane or impostor monks may say to the contrary, human and divine morality will always condemn theft, whatever the disguises or hypocritical pretexts may be under which it is committed. To believe that such a disgraceful action deserves no punishment — worse yet, that it is meritorious — by reason of the fruits thereof being consecrated to charitable works, is about the most monstrous mental aberration that can ever insult the conscience of an honest man!” Christian thereupon supported and led Bridget in tears back towards the staircase, took up the lamp, and walked upstairs with these parting words to his son: “May heaven open your eyes, my son and inspire you with repentance!”
Imperturbable as ever, Hervé did not seem to hear his father’s last words. When the latter re-entered his own room with his wife and closed the door, the young man, who had remained in the dark, threw himself down upon his knees, picked up his instrument of discipline and began flagellating himself with savage fury. The lad smothered the cries that the pain involuntarily forced from him, and, a prey to delirious paroxysms, only murmured from time to time, with bated breath, the name of his sister Hena.
CHAPTER III.
THE SALE OF INDULGENCES.
THE MORNING AFTER the trying night experienced by Christian and his wife, a large crowd filled the church of the Dominican Convent. It was a bizarre crowd. It consisted of people of all conditions. Thieves and mendicants, artisans, bourgeois and seigneurs, lost women and devout old dames, ladies of distinction and plebeian women and children of all ages, elbowed one another. They were all attracted by that day’s religious celebration; they crowded especially near the choir. This space was shut off by an iron railing four feet in height; it was to be the theater of the most important incidents in the ceremony. Among the spectators nearest to the choir stood Hervé Lebrenn together with his friend Fra Girard. The Franciscan monk was about twenty-five years of age, and of a cadaverous, austere countenance. The mask of asceticism concealed an infernal knave gifted with superior intelligence. The monk enveloped his young companion, so to speak, with a fascinating gaze; the latter, apparently a prey to profound preoccupation, bent his head and crossed his arms over his breast.
“Hervé,” said Fra Girard in a low voice, “do you remember the day when in a fit of despair and terror you came to me to confession — and confessed a thing that you hardly dared admit to yourself?”
“Yes,” answered Hervé with a shudder and dropping his eyes still lower; “yes, I remember the day.”
“I then told you,” the Franciscan proceeded to say, “that the Catholic Church, from which you were separated from childhood by an impious education, afforded consolation to troubled hearts — even better, held out hope — still better than that, gave positive assurance even to the worst of sinners, provided they had faith. By little and little our long and frequent conversations succeeded in causing the divine light to penetrate your mind, and the scales dropped from your eyes. The faith that I then preached to you, has since filled and now overflows your soul. Fasting, maceration and ardent prayer have smoothed the way for your salvation. The hour of your reward has arrived. Blessed be the Lord!”
Fra Girard had hardly uttered these words when the deep notes of th
e organ filled with a melancholic harmony the lugubrious church into which the light of day broke only through narrow windows of colored glass. A procession that issued from the interior of the Dominican cloister entered the church and marched around the aisles. The cortege was headed by four footmen clad in red, the papal livery, who held aloft four standards upon which the pontifical coat-of-arms was emblazoned; they were followed by priests in surplices surrounding a cross and chanting psalms of penitence; behind these came another platoon of papal footmen, bearing a stretcher covered with gold cloth, and in the center of which, on a cushion of crimson velvet, lay a red box containing the bull of Leo X empowering the Order of St. Dominic to dispense indulgences. Several censer-bearers walked backward before the stretcher, and stopped from time to time in order to swing their copper and silver censers from which clouds of perfumed vapor issued and circled upward. A Dominican prior walked behind the stretcher clasping a large cross of red wood in his arms; this dignitary — a man in the full vigor of age, tall of stature and so corpulent that his paunch threatened to burst his frock — was the Apostolic Commissioner entrusted with the sale of indulgences; a heavy black beard framed in his high-colored face; the monk’s triumphant gait and the haughty looks that he cast around him pointed him out as the hero of the approaching ceremony. He was followed by a long line of penitentiaries and sub-Apostolic Commissioners with white wands in their hands. A last squad of papal footmen, holding by leather straps a huge coffer also covered with crimson velvet and locked with three gilded clasps, closed the procession. A slit, similar to that of the poor-boxes in churches, was cut into the lid of the coffer. Through it the moneys were to be dropped by the purchasers of indulgences, or by the faithful, anxious to redeem the souls in purgatory.
When the procession, at the passage of which the crowd prostrated itself religiously, completed the circuit of the church, the papal footmen who bore the banners grouped them as trophies upon the main altar, before which the stretcher, covered with gold cloth, the bull, and the big coffer were processionally borne. The Apostolic Commissioner with the cross of red wood in his hand placed himself near the coffer; the penitentiaries ranked themselves in front of several confessionals that were set up for the occasion near the choir, and all of which bore the pontifical arms.