“But,” objected Philippe, “it’s very important.
At any moment Loyer may sign the appointments now. There are several vacant sees.”
She reflected a moment, and, making a special effort to think clearly, said:
“You must be mistaken, mon petit,” said she. “It’s not Loyer who appoints the bishops. It’s the Pope, really it is, or the Nuncio. I can prove that, for the other day Emmanuel said, ‘The Nuncio ought to overcome the modesty of M. de Goulet, and offer him a bishopric.’ So you see.”
He tried to convince her to the contrary, taking the trouble to explain the reason why.
“Listen to me! The minister chooses the bishops, and the Nuncio confirms the minister’s choice. That is what is called the Concordat. You must say to Loyer: ‘I know of an intelligent liberal-minded priest, one that the Pope thinks of very highly’—”
“Yes, yes, I know!” She opened wide eyes of wonder. “It’s an extraordinary thing you are asking of me, mon petit!”
Her amazement came from the fact that she was religious, and had the greatest veneration for holy things. He was a little less religious than she, but perhaps a trifle more scrupulous, and in his innermost self he recognised that she was right, and that it was an extraordinary thing to ask of her. But he was so anxious for the matter to be concluded that he hastened to reassure her.
“I am not asking you to do anything forbidden by religion,” he protested.
In the meanwhile her first curiosity had returned. “But why do you want M. Guitrel to be chosen, mon petit?” she asked.
He answered confusedly, as he had done before: “Mother would be pleased, and other people too.”
“What other people?”
“Oh, heaps of them — the Bonmonts.”
“The Bonmonts? But they are Jews!”
“That doesn’t matter; there are Jews even among the clergy.”
Madame de Gromance grew more suspicious as soon as she learned that the Bonmonts were mixed up in the singular affair, but being affectionate and easily led she promised Philippe she would do as he asked.
CHAPTER XVI
M. L’ABBÉ GUITREL, candidate for the episcopacy, was ushered into the study of the Nuncio, Monseigneur Cima, whose appearance at first sight came as a surprise, for his pale, large-featured countenance, on which the years had left traces of fatigue, showed no signs of age. At forty, he looked rather like a sickly youth, and when he cast down his eyes his face was as the face of a dead man. He signed to the visitor to be seated, and, assuming his usual attitude, leaned back in his easy chair, and prepared to listen to him. With his right elbow in his left hand, and his head resting in the hollow of his right hand, he had a grace that struck one as vaguely funereal, and called to mind certain figures on ancient bas-reliefs. When in repose his face was veiled in melancholy, but as soon as he smiled it radiated humour. The gaze of his beautiful dark eyes gave one a feeling of discomfort; at Naples he was said to possess the evil eye; in France he passed for a clever politician.
M. l’Abbé Guitrel thought it advisable to make only a passing allusion to the object of his visit.
Mother Church in her wisdom might dispose of him as she judged good. All his feelings of love for her were blended in an entire obedience to her will!
“Monseigneur,” he added, “I am a priest, in other words a soldier, and I aspire to the glory of obedience!”
Slowly bending his head, as a sign of approbation, Monseigneur Cima asked the Abbé if he had been in any way acquainted with M. Duclou, the late Bishop of Tourcoing.
“I knew him when he was Curé at Orleans, Monseigneur.”
“Orleans? A pleasant town, I have relations there, distant cousins of mine. M. Duclou was very old when he died. Do you know what caused his death?”
“Stone, Monseigneur.”
“The cause of the death of many old men, although science has discovered many things to mitigate this terrible malady.”
“Yes, indeed, Monseigneur!”
“I used to know M. Duclou at Rome; he often had a rubber of whist with me. Have you ever been to Rome, M. Guitrel?”
“Monseigneur, that is a joy so far denied me, but I have long sojourned there in thought. My spirit has outstripped my body in its journey to the Vatican.”
“Yes, yes; the Pope would be very pleased to see you. He likes France very much. The best time for a visit to Rome is during the spring, for in summer malaria is rife in the countryside, and in some parts of the city even.”
“I do not fear malaria.”
“Of course not. Besides, provided one takes certain precautions, one can always ward off fevers; you must never go out at night without your cloak, and foreigners especially should never go out in open vehicles after the sun has set.”
“I have heard, Monseigneur, that the Coliseum by moonlight is a truly wonderful sight.”
“The air is treacherous in that district, and the gardens of the Villa Borghese are also to be avoided for the same reason.”
“Really, Monseigneur?”
“Yes, yes! I, who am Roman-born, cannot endure the climate of Rome. I prefer to go to Brussels. I was there for a year some time ago, and can think of no town that I like better. I have relations there. Tourcoing, is that a large town?”
“About 40,000 inhabitants, I believe, Monseigneur. It is a manufacturing town.”
“I know! I know! M. Duclou used to tell me in Rome that he could only find one fault with his flock: they drank beer. He used to say that if they would only drink the light wines of Orleans they would be the most perfect Christians in the world, but hops made them melancholy.”
“M. Duclou was a very witty man.”
“He disliked beer, and once I surprised him very much by telling him that it was quite popular in Italy nowadays. There are very prosperous German beer-houses in Florence, Rome, Naples, and most of the other towns. Do you like beer, M. Guitrel?”
“I do not dislike it, Monseigneur.”
The Nuncio gave his ring to the priest, who kissed it and took a respectful leave.
The Nuncio rang the bell.
“Show M. Lantaigne in.”
Having kissed the ring, the director of the Grand Séminaire was invited to sit down and state his business.
He said:
“Monseigneur, I have sacrificed to the Pope and to necessity all the ties that bound me to the Royal House of France; I have trampled down the nearest hopes of my heart, which was only what I owed to the Father of the Faithful and the unity of the Church. If His Holiness raises me to the see of Tourcoing, I will rule it in his interest and in the interest of France. A bishop is a ruling power, and I can answer for my steadfastness and devotion.” Slowly bending his head as a sign of approbation, Monseigneur Cima asked Abbé Lantaigne whether he had been in any way acquainted with M. Duclou, the late Bishop of Tourcoing.
“I only knew him slightly,” replied M. Lantaigne, “and long before his elevation to the bishopric. I remember having lent him some of my sermons when I had more of them than I knew what to do with.”
“He was not young when we lost him. Do you know what caused his death?”
“I do not know.”
“I knew M. Duclou in Rome; he often used to play a rubber of whist with me. Have you ever been to Rome, M. Lantaigne?”
“Never, Monseigneur.”
“You should go. The Pope would be very pleased to see you; he likes France very much. But you must be careful when you go; the climate of Rome is bad for foreigners. During the summer malaria is rife in the countryside, and even in some parts of the city. The best season to visit Rome is the spring. I was born in Rome, of Roman parents, and I much prefer Paris or Brussels. Brussels is a very pleasant town. I have relations there. Tell me, Tourcoing, is it a very large town?”
“It is one of the oldest sees of Northern France, Monseigneur, and is notorious for its long line of saintly bishops, from the blessed St. Loup to Monseigneur de la Thrumellière, the immediate pred
ecessor of M. Duclou.”
“Tell me, what are the people of Tourcoing like?”
“They are good Church people, Monseigneur, and tend more to the Belgian form of Catholicism than to the French.”
“Yes, yes, I know. M. Douclou, the late lamented Bishop of Tourcoing, told me one day in Rome that he had only one fault to find with his flock; they drank beer. He used to say that if they would only drink the light wines of Orleans, they would be the most perfect Christians in the world, but the juice of the hop filled them with its melancholy and bitterness.”
“Monseigneur, allow me to say one thing: Monseigneur Duclou was both weak, and brainless. He never brought out the energetic qualities of the sturdy northerners under his care. He was not a bad man, but his dislike of evil was only moderate. The Catholic town of Tourcoing must shine out on the whole of the Catholic world. Should His Holiness judge me worthy to fill the seat of the blessed St. Loup, I swear in ten years’ time to have won all hearts by the sacred energy of good works; to have stolen back all the souls gone over to the enemy and to re-establish around me the oneness of belief. In the depths of her innermost soul, France is Christian, and only needs energetic leaders. The Church is dying from sheer inanition.”
Monseigneur Cima rose from his chair, and held out to Abbé Lantaigne his golden ring, saying: “You must go to Rome, M. l’Abbé, you must go to Rome!”
CHAPTER XVII
THE drawing-room of the house in the grey Batignolles quarter was humble, the only decorations being copies of the engravings in the Louvre, little statues, cups and dishes of Sèvres china, trivial-looking ornaments, which somehow proclaimed the fact that the lady of the house was connected with Government officials.
Madame Cheiral, née Loyer, was the sister of the Minister of Justice and Public Worship. She was the widow of a commission-agent in the Rue d’Hauteville, who had died without leaving a penny, and she had attached herself to her brother, partly for the sake of a home, and partly out of maternal ambition. She ruled the old bachelor, who ruled the country, and had forced him to take as his secretary-in-chief her son Maurice, who was not fitted for anything in particular, and was good for nothing except some public office.
Uncle Loyer had a room in the little flat of the Avenue de Clichy, where he came to stay for a while every spring, at which season he was subject to attacks of giddiness and drowsiness, for he was get ting old. As soon, however, as his head felt better and his tread became more assured, he returned to the attic-room, where he had lived for half a century, a room where he had twice been arrested by the agents of the Empire, and from which he could see the trees of the Luxembourg. He still kept the pipe of Jules Grévy in this garret of his.
This pipe was perhaps the most treasured possession of the old fellow, who had gone through many phases as a Member of Parliament: the days of eloquence and the days of affairs. He had controlled as Minister of the Interior the secret funds of three budgets. He had bought many a conscience for his party, a corrupter of others, but incorruptible himself. He had always had an infinite indulgence for the hypocrisies of his friends, but was jealous himself of retaining in the midst of his power the vantage-ground of a simulated poverty that was at once cynical, obstinate, deep-rooted, and honourable.
His eye was dim now and his mind inactive, but in the intervals, when his old skill and decisive spirit returned to him, he applied all his remaining vigour to concentrated thought, and the game of billiards. Madame Cheiral, whose intelligence was limited and whose skill but moderate, did what she liked with the cunning, quiet, silent, and coarse-minded old man, who for the sixth time in his career had been selected as a member of the cabinet that had followed upon the heels of the clerical cabinet, and who saw his nephew fulfilling the indefinite duties of secretary-in-chief without an idea of leadership, nor a glimmer of moral principle. No doubt, Loyer was somewhat surprised to find that his nephew had reactionary and clerical tendencies, but he was too much inclined to apoplexy to run the risk of thwarting his sister.
Madame Cheiral was staying at home that day, and when Madame Worms-Clavelin called to see her somewhat late in the afternoon, when no further callers were expected, she received her very cordially. They wished each other good-bye, for the préfet’s wife was returning home on the morrow.
“Going already, darling?”
“I must,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin sweetly, looking quite innocent in her black feather-trimmed hat.
She always affected this hat when paying calls, likening herself to a plume-bedecked horse attached to a funeral car.
“You must stay and dine with us, dear; we so seldom see you in Paris. We shall be quite alone. I don’t think my brother will be here. He is so busy and engrossed in his work just now! But perhaps Maurice will be with us; the young men of to-day are much steadier than they used to be. Maurice often spends an evening home with me.”
She began to try to prevail upon Madame Worms-Clavelin with all the persuasive eloquence of a sociable soul.
“We shall be quite among ourselves. Your dress will do very nicely. I assure you we shall be absolutely en famille.”
Now Madame Worms-Clavelin had obtained from the Minister of the Interior the Cross of the Legion of Honour for her husband; she had exacted from the Minister of Instruction and Public Worship a promise that the name of M. Guitrel, as candidate for the bishopric of Tourcoing, should be on the list of candidates selected for the six vacant sees, so there was nothing to keep her any longer in Paris. She had intended to return home that very evening.
She excused herself, saying that she had “so many things to see to,” but Madame Cheiral insisted; then, as Madame Worms persisted in her refusal, she showed her displeasure by tightened lips and acid tones, so Madame Worms-Clavelin, who had no wish to annoy her, gave in.
“That’s right; and, as I said before, we shall be quite by ourselves.”
They were by themselves, for Loyer never came, and Maurice, who was expected, did not turn up either. But in their place came a lady tobacconist (The sale of tobacco in France is controlled by the State, and given to the widows and daughters of Government officials, military and naval officers, etc.) and a well-known elementary school teacher. The conversation was deep and serious. Madame Cheiral, who really was only interested in her own affairs, and who had no spite against any one except her dearest friends, picked out the men whom she thought worthy of the Senate, the Chamber, and the Institute, not that she cared about politics, science, or literature, but because she thought it her duty, as the sister of a Cabinet Minister, to hold opinions on everything that contributed to the moral and intellectual greatness of her country.
Madame Worms-Clavelin listened to her with charming deference, always retaining the same air of innocence that she reserved for people who bored her. When in society she had a way of looking down which gave old gentlemen a thrill, and which to-day excited the admiration of the hoary-headed instructor of grammar and gymnastics, who endeavoured to press her foot with his own under the table. However, she had made up her mind to return by train from the Avenue de Clichy to the Arc-de-Triomphe, where, among the radiating avenues that look like an enormous cross of honour, her boarding house was situated. But when she re turned to the drawing-room on the arm of the old gentleman who had rendered such signal services to elementary instruction she found Maurice Cheiral, who had been detained at the ministry, and who, after dining at a restaurant, had returned home to dress, prior to spending the evening at a theatre.
He examined Madame Worms-Clavelin with interest, and sat down beside her on the comfortable old couch that stood under a great Sèvres dish decorated in neo-Chinese style, and suspended on the wall in a blue plush frame.
“Madame Clavelin! You are the very person I wanted to see!”
In her younger days Madame Worms-Clavelin had been thin and dark, and in such guise had not been unattractive to men. As time went on she became fat and fair, and in this guise she was again not unattractive to men.
“Did you see my uncle yesterday?”
“Yes. He was so sweet to me. How is he today?”
“Tired, very tired. He gave me the papers.”
“What papers?”
“The papers referring to the candidatures for the six vacant sees. You are very anxious for Abbé Guitrel to be elected, are you not?”
“My husband is anxious. Your uncle told me that the thing was settled.”
“My uncle; you should not take any notice of what he says — he is a Minister and cannot know. People are always fooling him, and then he often says what he does not mean. Why didn’t you come to me?”
With charming modesty Madame Worms-Clavelin replied in a low voice:
“Well, I do come to you!”
“And you are wise to do so,” replied the secretary-in-chief. “All the more so because the business is not going on as you wish, and it depends upon me whether it proceeds or not. My uncle told you, no doubt, that he was going to present the six applications to the Pope?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they have already been presented. I know that, for I sent them. I take a special interest in Church matters. My uncle is one of the old school; he does not understand the importance of religion, while I realise it thoroughly. Now this is how things stand: the six candidates have been presented to the Pope, and the Holy Father has only accepted four. As far as the other two are concerned, that is M. Guitrel and M. Morrue, he does not absolutely reject them, but he says he has not yet sufficient information concerning them.” Maurice Cheiral shook his head gravely. “He has not sufficient information! And when -he gets more I do not know what he will say. Between ourselves, dear lady, Guitrel looks to me a bit of a rogue, and we cannot be too careful in choosing our bishops. The clergy is a force upon which a prudent Government should be able to rely; we are just beginning to realise that.”
“You are quite right,” said Madame Clavelin.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 160