Madame Worms-Clavelin quite thought she would leave the carriage as she had entered it. Assuming a serious and gentle expression, she said in a sympathetic tone:
“Thank you, dear M. Cheiral. Put me down here, if you please, and remember me to your mother.”
And she held out her hand, a little, stumpy hand clad in an exceedingly dirty glove. But he held it tightly, becoming tender and insistent, full of desire and amour-propre.
“I am as muddy as a water spaniel,” she remarked, just as he was about to find that out for himself.
While he adhered to his resolve, in spite of the obstacles of circumstances and environment, she showed the most perfect good taste and simplicity. With wonderful tact, she avoided all the unpleasantness arising from an over-prolonged resistance or a too rapid resignation. In like manner she avoided any remark that might reveal either ironical indifference or interested participation. She behaved perfectly. She had no feeling of dislike for the young statesman, who was so innocent at the very moment when he believed himself to be so wicked, and feelings of real regret came over her as she reflected that she might have been more careful in selecting her lingerie for the occasion; she never had been careful enough of that, but of late years her carelessness had become somewhat excessive. Her greatest merit on this occasion was in keeping clear of all emphasis and exaggeration.
After a while, Maurice suddenly became quiet, indifferent, even a trifle bored. He talked of things quite foreign to their present situation, and peered through the blurred window-panes at the streets that looked as though the carriage were going along at the bottom of an aquarium; all that could be seen through the rain was the gas-jets, and here and there the glass jars in the windows of the chemists’ shops.
“What awful rain!” sighed Madame Worms-Clavelin.
“The weather has been dreadful for the last week,” said Maurice Cheiral, “simply rotten. Is it the same in your part of the country?”
“We get more rain in our department than in any other in France,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin with charming sweetness. “But there is never any mud on the broad, gravelled garden paths of the Préfecture. Then we country people wear clogs.”
“Do you know,” said Cheiral, “that I have never been to your town?”
“There are beautiful walks there,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin, “and the surroundings are charming. Do come and see us. My husband would be delighted.”
“Does your husband like living there?”
“Yes, he likes it because he has been successful there.”
In her turn, she tried to see through the clouded panes and to pierce the thick darkness that was full of fugitive glimmers of light.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Far away from everywhere, I should think,” he replied eagerly. “Where would you like me to put you down?”
She asked him to stop at a station, and he did not attempt to disguise his anxiety to leave her.
“I must go to the Chambre,” he said. “I do not know what they have been doing to-day.”
“Ah, they were sitting to-day?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but there was nothing of importance, I believe — an increase of tariff. But one never knows. I had better just look in.”
They took leave of one another easily and amicably. As Madame Worms-Clavelin stepped into a fiacre in the Boulevard de Courcelles, near the fortifications, she heard the newsboys crying the evening papers, and holding them out to the passers-by as they hurried along. She caught sight of a heading in huge letters— “Fall of the Government.”
Madame Worms-Clavelin stood for a moment looking at the men, and listening to the voices dying away in the rainy night. She reflected that, if Loyer were really going to send in his resignation to the President of the Republic, there would be in all probability no notice in to-morrow’s Officiel of the new appointments in the Church. She reflected that her husband’s decoration would not be included in the last will and testament of the Minister of the Interior, and that hence the half-hour she had spent in the blue-curtained fiacre was of no avail. She had no regret over what had happened, but did not like doing things to no purpose.
“Neuilly,” she said to the driver, “Boulevard Bineau, the Convent of the Dames du Saint-Sang.”
And she sat pensive and solitary, while the cries of the newsvendors filled her ears, and she tried to convince herself that the news was true. She would not buy a paper, however, partly out of mistrust and contempt for all newspaper matter, and partly because she was determined not to rob herself of so much as a half-penny. She reflected that if the Ministry really had fallen, just at the moment when she was being so prodigal of her favours, it was a striking example of the irony of things and the spite that hovers ceaselessly about us, like the very atmosphere we breathe. She asked herself whether Loyer’s secretary-in-chief had not known the news that was now being shouted abroad while he waited for her at the park gates. At this thought she grew scarlet, as though her chastity had been outraged and her faith betrayed, for if that were the case Maurice Cheiral had been making game of her, and that she could not endure. However, her sound common sense and wide experience soon came to her aid, assuring her that it was never safe to trust the newspapers. She thought of Abbé Guitrel without a qualm, and congratulated herself on having contributed in ever so small a degree to the elevation of the excellent priest to the See of the Blessed Saint Loup. She arranged a few little details of her toilet the while, so that she might present a good appearance in the parlour of the Dames du Saint-Sang who were charged with the education of her daughter.
The fog was paler and less dense in the deserted avenues, and the low, damp streets of Neuilly. Through the gentle rain, the strong, graceful outlines of the great bare trees were visible. Madame Worms-Clavelin caught a glimpse of some poplars, and they reminded her of the country which she loved more dearly every day.
She reached the barred doorway crowned with a stone shield bearing the glove in which Joseph of Arimathea received the sacred blood of the Saviour, and rang the bell. At her request, the portress sent for Mademoiselle de Clavelin, and Madame Worms-Clavelin entered the bright parlour with its horsehair chairs. As she sat there before a picture of the Virgin extending her blessing-laden hands, the préfets wife was filled with a strong, sweet feeling of religion. She was not wholly a Christian, because she had never been baptised. But her daughter had been baptised, and was being brought up in the Catholic faith. Together with the Republic, Madame Worms-Clavelin felt strong leanings towards a conventional piety, and with a sincere uplifting of the heart she saluted the kind, blue-veiled Virgin, to whom well-to-do ladies like herself poured out their troubles and necessities. She thanked Providence for all her blessings, as she sat before the picture of Mary, with her outstretched arms, and she thanked the Virgin with a mystical intensity that the Jewish religion had never been able to satisfy. She was full of gratitude to God, who had guided her from the miserable days of her childhood in Montmartre, when she had run about the greasy streets of the outer boulevards in her worn-out shoes, until the present time, when she mixed in the best society, belonged to the ruling classes, and had a share in the affairs that governed the country; and she thanked God that in all her negotiations — for life is difficult, and one often needs the help of others — she had, at any rate, never had to come into contact with any but men of position in the world. “Good evening, mother!”
Madame Worms-Clavelin drew her daughter under the lamp and examined her teeth; that was always her first care. Then she looked at her eyes, to see whether she was anaemic or not, saw that her back was straight and that she did not bite her nails. When satisfied on all these points, she inquired as to her work and her conduct. Her solicitude was full of sound common sense and much experience, and altogether she was an excellent mother.
When at last the bell rang for evening study, and it was time to say good-bye, Madame Worms-Clavelin drew from her pocket a box of chocolates. The box was
crushed, broken, dilapidated, and as fiat as a pancake.
Mademoiselle de Clavelin took it, saying with a laugh:
“Oh, mother! It looks as if it had been in the wars!”
“It is this dreadful weather!” said Madame Worms-Clavelin, with a shrug of her shoulders.
That evening after dinner at the boarding-house she found on the drawing-room table a well-known evening paper whose information she knew to be well authenticated. On reading it, she learned that the Government had not fallen, and was not even in difficulties. It is true that it had been in the minority at the commencement of the sitting, but that was only on the order of the day, and it had immediately been followed by a majority of 105.
The news delighted her, and as she thought of her husband, she said to herself, “Lucien will be pleased to hear that Guitrel has been made bishop.”
CHAPTER XXI
“ASK M. Guitrel to come in,” said Loyer.
Seated at his desk, the Minister was hardly visible behind the heaps of paper piled upon it; he was a little spectacled old man, with a grey moustache, watery eyes, and a sniff — a cynical, cantankerous old fellow, but an honest man who, in spite of the power and honour that had fallen to his lot, still had the appearance and manner of a professor of the law. He took off his spectacles and wiped them, for he was curious to see the Abbé, the candidate to the episcopal dignity, who had been backed by so many brilliant society women.
Madame de Gromance, the pretty provincial, had been the first to call upon him at the end of December. She had told him, without beating about the bush, that he must appoint the Abbé Guitrel to the See of Tourcoing. The old Minister, who still loved the perfume that clings to a pretty woman, had kept the little hand of Madame de Gromance for a long time between his, stroking with his thumb the bare space between the glove and the sleeve where over the blue veins the skin is softest. He had not gone further, however, because he was getting old, and everything was an effort to him, and also he was afraid of appearing ridiculous in her eyes, for he still had his share of vanity. His words alone savoured of impropriety, and, according to his invariable custom, he inquired for Madame de Gromance’s “old Royalist,” as he familiarly called her husband. His eyes had become tearful behind their bluish glasses, and his face had creased itself into a thousand little wrinkles at the excellence of the jest.
The idea that the “old Royalist” was a wronged husband filled the Minister of Justice and Public Worship with what really was inordinate glee. As he thought of it, he looked at Madame de Gromance with more curiosity, interest, and pleasure than was perhaps in the case justifiable, but from the ruins of his amorous nature he was building a series of mental amusements, the most intense of which was to gloat over the misfortune of M. de Gromance in the very presence of its voluptuous cause.
During the six months in which he had been Minister of the Interior in a former Radical Cabinet, he had received from Worms-Clavelin private and confidential notes, telling him all about the Gromance ménage, so that he knew all there was to know about Clotilde’s lovers, and delighted in the knowledge that they were numerous. He had received the beautiful petitioner with every kindness, promising to look into M. Guitrel’s case, but committing himself no further, for he was a good Republican, and did not believe in subordinating affairs of state to a woman’s caprice.
Then, too, the Baronne de Bonmont, who was reputed to have the most beautiful shoulders in Paris, had spoken in favour of Abbé Guitrel at the Élysée soirées. Finally, Madame Worms-Clavelin, the préfet’s wife, a very charming woman, had whispered a word in his ear concerning the good Abbé.
Loyer was very curious to see the priest who had fluttered so many feminine hearts. He wondered whether he was about to behold one of the great sturdy becassocked fellows that of latter days the Church has thrown into public gatherings, sending them as far even as the Chamber of Deputies, one of those young, full-blooded, outspoken clerical tribunes of the people — headstrong and shrewd, with a power over simple men and women.
The Abbé Guitrel entered the study, his head upon one side, and holding his hat before him in his clasped hands. He was not unprepossessing, but his desire to please, and his respect for the powers that be, made his habitual carefully assumed priestly dignity less apparent than usual.
Loyer noticed his three chins and domed head, his portly form, his narrow shoulders, and his unctuousness. He was quite an old man too.
“What do the women want with him?” he thought.
The interview was trifling on either side; but, after questioning M. Guitrel on some points of ecclesiastical administration, Loyer gathered from the fat man’s replies that his views were both sensible and fair.
He remembered that the Director of Public Worship, M. Mostart, was not against the nomination of Abbé Guitrel to the See of Tourcoing. Truth to tell, M. Mostart had not given him much information on the subject. Since there had been such a rapid succession of clerical and anti-clerical cabinets, the Director of Public Worship had not dabbled overmuch in the making of bishops; the matter had become too delicate of handling. He had a house at Joinville, and was fond of gardening and fishing. His dearest dream was to write a chatty history of the Bobino Theatre, which he had known in its palmy days. He was growing old, was a prudent man, and did not stick obstinately to his own opinion. The evening before he had said to Loyer, “I propose Abbé Guitrel, but there’s nothing to choose between Abbé Guitrel and Abbé Lantaigne, it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other I”
Those were the very words of the Director of Public Worship, but Loyer was himself an old doctor at law, and always able to make nice distinctions.
M. Guitrel seemed to him sensible enough, and not too fanatical.
“You are not ignorant of the fact, Monsieur l’Abbé,” he said, “that the late Bishop of Tourcoing, M. Duclou, tended to become intolerant in the latter part of his life, and gave an unreasonable amount of work to the Council of State. What is your opinion on the subject?”
“Alas,” replied the Abbé Guitrel, with a sigh, “it is quite true that in his declining years, as he neared the period of eternal blessedness, Monseigneur Duclou made some rather unfortunate declarations. The situation was a difficult one then, but things have greatly altered, and his successor will be able to labour quietly towards the establishment of peace. What he will have to aim at is real peace. The road to it is marked; he will have to enter upon it resolutely and follow it to the end. As a matter of fact, laws dealing with education and the Army do not give rise nowadays to any difficulties, and all that really remains is the question of the taxation of religious communities. This question, we must allow, is peculiarly important in a diocese like Tourcoing, which, if I may say so, is plastered with all kinds of religious institutions. I have studied it at length, and, if you wish, can speak of the conclusions to which this study has led me.”
“The clergy,” said Loyer, “dislike parting with their money. That is the truth.”
“Nobody likes it, Monsieur le Ministre,” returned Abbé Guitrel, “and Your Excellency, such an adept in all that relates to finance, must realise that there is a way of shearing the ratepayer without making him complain. Why not use the same method with our poor monks, who are too good Frenchmen not to be good ratepayers? You must bear in mind, Monsieur le Ministre, that they are subject in the first case to the ordinary taxes that everybody pays.”
“Naturally,” put in Loyer.
“Secondly, to taxes on inalienable property.”
“And do you complain of that?” inquired the Minister.
“Not at all,” replied the Abbé. “I am merely enumerating them all — quick reckonings make long friends. Thirdly, to a tax of four per cent on the income accruing from lands, houses, furniture, and money; and, fourthly, they are liable to the increment duty, as established by the laws of the 28th of December, 1880, and the 29th of December, 1884. It is only the principle underlying this last tax, as you know, Monsieur le Ministre, that has
been contested by several communities. The agitation has not yet died down everywhere, and it is on this point, Monsieur le Ministre, that I take the liberty of expressing the views which would actuate me, were I to have the honour of occupying the see of the Blessed Saint Loup.”
As a sign of attention, the Minister turned round in his chair, and faced the Abbé, who went on in the following terms:
“As a matter of principle, Monsieur le Ministre, I disapprove of the spirit of revolt, and dislike any tumultuous or systematic claiming of rights, and in this I only comply with the Encyclical beginning ‘Diuturnum illud,’ in which Leo XIII, following the example of St. Paul, exhorts his people to obedience towards the civil authorities. So much for principle; let us now look fact in the face. As a matter of fact, I find that the religious in the diocese of Tourcoing are placed in such different positions with regard to rates and taxes that universality of action is thereby rendered exceedingly difficult. In this diocese there are authorised and unauthorised communities, some communities dedicated to works of charity among the poor, the aged, and the orphan, and some whose sole aim and object is a life of spiritual contemplation. They are taxed differently, according to their different purposes. It is my opinion that the very opposition of their interests breaks down resistance, unless their bishop himself directs the tenor of their claims, a thing which, for my part, I should avoid, if I were their spiritual head. I would willingly see uncertainty and division among the communities of my diocese if by so doing I could ensure the peace of the Church as a whole. As far as my secular clergy were concerned,” added the priest in a firm voice, “I would answer for them as a general answers for his troops.”
Having thus spoken, M. Guitrel apologised for having given such free vent to his thoughts, and wasted the precious time of His Excellency.
Old Loyer made no answer, but he nodded approval. For a parson, Guitrel was not so difficult, to get on with after all, he thought.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 162