“Or Christianity!” said Gherardi, still smiling.
Moretti pushed aside his papers, and leaning his head on one hand frowned meditatively at the amethyst light which streamed radiantly through the jewel-like window above him. “Yes — or Christianity, if you like!” he said, “For Christianity pur et simple, WOULD be eccentricity. In its primitive simplicity it is an impossible creed. Founded by the Divine it needs divine beings to comprehend and follow it, — beings not of this world nor addicted to the things of this world. And to exist in the world, made of the world’s clay, and the world’s inherited associations, and yet not be of it, is to be judged crazed! True, there have been saints and martyrs, — there are saints and martyrs now, unknown and unheard of, but nevertheless consumed by flames more cruel perhaps than those which physically burn the flesh; — idealists, thinkers, dreamers, heralds of future progress, — and how are they estimated? As madmen all! To be human, and yet above humanity, is the supreme sin! For that very affront the multitude cried out, ‘Not this man, but Barabbas!’ And to this day we all prefer Barabbas to Christ. Hence the power of the Church!”
Gherardi put back the volume he had been glancing at, on its shelf, and looked at his confrere with a certain amount of admiring respect. He had been long an interested student of the various psychological workings of Moretti’s mind, — and he knew that Moretti’s scheming brain was ever hard at work designing bold and almost martial plans for securing such conversions to the Church as would seriously trouble the peace of two or three great nations. Moretti was in close personal touch with every crowned head in Europe; he was acquainted more closely than anyone alive with the timidities, the nervous horrors, the sudden scruples, the sickening qualms of conscience, and the overwhelming fears of death which troubled the minds of certain powerful personages apparently presenting a brave front to the world, — and he held such personages in awe by the very secrets which they had, in weak moments, entrusted to him. Gherardi even was not without his own fears, — he instinctively felt that Moretti knew more about himself than was either safe or convenient.
“We all live for Barabbas,” pursued Moretti, an ironical smile playing on his thin lips, “Not for Christ! Barabbas, in the shape of the unscrupulous millionaire, robs the world! — and we share the spoils, pardon his robberies, and set him free. But whosoever lives outside Dogma, serving God purely and preaching truth, — him we crucify! — but our Robber, — our murderer of Truth, we set at liberty! Hence, as I said before, the power of the Church!”
Carried away by his thoughts, he rose, and pacing the room, talked more to himself than to Gherardi.
“The Church supports the robber, because he is always a coward and cannot stand alone. The murderer of his fellow-men’s good name is naturally a liar, and fears lest his lies should find him out. Fear! That is the keynote on which we of Rome play our invincible march of triumph! The Church appeals to the ignorant, the base, the sensual, the false, and the timorous; and knowing that they never repent, but are only afraid, retains them by fear! — fear, not love! Christ taught love — but hate is the more popular virtue! Hence again, the power of the Church!”
“Your argument is perfectly orthodox!” said Gherardi, with a smile.
“Hate is a grand, a strong quality!” went on Moretti, “It makes nations, it builds up creeds! If men loved one another what should they need of a Church? But Hate! — the subtle sense which makes the ultra-respectable thank God that he is not as other men are! — the fierce emotion which almost touches ecstacy when the wronged individual thinks his enemy will go to hell! — the fine fever which sets father against son, creed against creed, nation against nation! — hate is the chief mainspring of human motives! From hate and envy spring emulation and conquest — and we of the Church encourage the haters to hate on! They make Us! — they emulate each other in the greed of their gifts to us, which give them notoriety and advertise their generosity, — WE fan the flame and encourage the fury! For the world must have a religion — it crucified Christ, but the Church, built up in His name, takes just and daily revenge for His murder! We do not save — we kill! We do not rescue — we trample down! We humiliate, — we crush wherever we can, and it is well and fitting we should do so! For Humanity is a brute beast, and serves us best under the lash. Rome made many a blunder in the old days of barbarity and ignorance — but now we have a thousand forces put into our hands instead of one or two, — forces to terrorise — forces to compel! — and the power of Rome wielded by the Popes of the days to come, shall be indeed a power irresistible!”
He stood enrapt, — his hand upraised, his eyes flashing, then recalling himself, turned abruptly on Gherardi with an impatient gesture.
“You can repeat all this,” he said sarcastically, “in your next eloquent discourse with Aubrey Leigh! It will save you the trouble of thinking! His influence with the English masses will be but a brief phenomenon, — the blind and brutal stupidity of the people he seeks to serve will soon dishearten and discourage him, and then he will come to us through his wife, and his conversion will be a triumph worth winning, — a step in the right direction. And now to other matters. These papers,” and he sat down at the table once more, “are, I think, sufficiently in order to be placed before His Holiness. But you may as well look through them with me first. Later on, the affair of Cardinal Bonpre will occupy all our time . . .”
“It is an ‘affair’ then?” asked Gherardi, “The ‘saint’ is in trouble?”
“All ‘saints’ get into trouble!” answered Moretti, “It is only sinners who receive honour! Cardinal Bonpre has made the fatal mistake of reading Jesus Christ’s Gospel instead of Church Doctrine! His creed is Love, — his duty, as I have just explained to you, if he would be a faithful son of the Church, is Hate!”
“Love forms no part of your nature then?” asked Gherardi, hardly knowing why he put the question, yet curious as to the answer.
“I am of the world!” replied Moretti coldly, “And I hate accordingly. I hate, and in my hate, aspire to crush those who in turn hate me! That is the human code, and one that must be strictly practised by all who would rule mankind. Never do anything for those who can do nothing for you! Firmly oppose those who oppose you! Revenge yourself on those who despitefully use you! We do revenge ourselves, — and we reward all who help us to our revenge! For example, Denis Vergniaud has cast opprobrium on his calling, and made a scandal and a shame of the Church before his congregation in Paris; — we excommunicate him! It is no use, but we do it on principle. And we are still unable to explain away, or offer any excuse for Cardinal Bonpre’s mistake in condoning and pardoning his offence. Therefore it follows as you say, that the ‘saint’ is in trouble!”
“Notwithstanding the miracle?”
“Notwithstanding the miracle!” echoed Moretti, “For the miracle is doubtful. The Holy Father is not satisfied of its truth. Yes — there is no doubt about it, Saint Felix is in trouble! It would be better for him had he never come out of his long retirement. But perhaps he was compelled to look after his Rouen foundling!”
A smile flickered faintly over Gherardi’s face, but he said not a word in answer. Discovering an error in one of the documents he was examining, he called Moretti’s attention to it, and the conversation drifted to everyday trivial subjects. But the thoughts of both men were elsewhere, and not even the news received that morning of the bequest of one hundred thousand pounds to the Shrine of Lourdes from a deluded believer in the miraculous Virgin there, absorbed so much of their reflective brain powers as the imminent trial — for it was little else — of Cardinal Bonpre, in the presence of the boy to whom he so openly gave his confidence and protection.
Meanwhile, the good Felix himself was very sorely troubled. During his sojourn in Rome, he had grown thinner and paler, and the fine, spiritual delicacy of his features had become more intensified, while his clear blue eyes shone from under their deeply arched brows with a flashing luminance that was almost unearthly. Often, when abo
ut to enter his room with unthinking haste, his brother-in-law, Prince Pietro, would see him kneeling before his crucifix absorbed, one might almost say entranced, in prayer. And he would softly move away again with a deep sense of awe, and a feeling that some higher power than any on earth, sustained the venerable prelate, and inspired both his words and actions. But with all his patient, sometimes passionate prayer, earnest meditations, and constant study of the Gospels, the Cardinal himself was more or less heavy-hearted, — and his Master’s phrase— “My soul is exceeding sorrowful even unto death!” was one which he often breathed in the solitude and extremity of his own position. The news of the disappearance of Claude Cazeau had materially added to his difficulties — and now he had been commanded, with a certain peremptoriness in the summons, to wait upon the Sovereign Pontiff in a private audience, bringing with him the boy who could, or would give no further account of himself than that of a world’s waif and stray. Prepared for this visit and arrayed in all the splendour befitting his rank in the Church, the gentle old man looked paler and more fragile than ever, and the vague trouble he felt at the express injunction laid upon him concerning Manuel, showed itself in the deep furrows of anxiety marked upon his brow, and the pain in his thoughtful eyes. Prince Pietro’s own man-servant had assisted him to dress for the impending ceremonial, and just as the last folds of his regal attire were being set in place a knock was heard at the door of his apartment, and Prince Pietro himself entered.
“A telegram for you, brother Felix,” he said, “I have brought it myself, thinking it may perhaps immediately concern your visit to the Pope to-day.”
The Cardinal, with a gentle word of thanks, opened the envelope handed to him.
“Praise be to God!” he said simply, as he read its contents, “Vergniaud has passed to the Higher tribunal!”
And he crossed himself reverently on brow and breast.
“Dead?” exclaimed Sovrani.
“To this world, yes!” answered Bonpre, “He died peacefully last night. This message is from his son.”
A faint ironical smile flickered over Sovrani’s dark features.
“The ban of excommunication has not been declared!” he said, “It will be a somewhat belated announcement!”
Cardinal Bonpre folded the telegram, ready to take with him to the Vatican.
“The Church can excommunicate even the dead!” he said sorrowfully, “If such an extreme measure is judged politic it will doubtless be carried out!”
“Wonderful Christian charity,” murmured Sovrani under his breath, “to excommunicate a corpse! For that is all they can do. The Soul of the man is God’s affair!”
Cardinal Bonpre answered nothing, for just then the young Manuel entered the room, in readiness to accompany his venerable protector and friend to the Vatican, and the old man’s eyes rested upon him with a wistful, wondering trouble and anxiety which he could not conceal. Manuel smiled up at him — that rare and beautiful smile which was like sunshine in darkness — but the Cardinal’s sad expression did not alter.
“The Abbe Vergniaud is no more,” he said gently, as the boy drew near, “His sins and sufferings are ended!”
“And his joys have begun!” answered Manuel, “For he set his life right with the world before he left it!”
“Child, you talk as a very wise man might!” said Prince Sovrani, his rugged brows smoothing into a kindly smile. “But the unfortunate Abbe is not likely to be judged in that way. It will be said of him that he scandalized the world before he left it!”
“When truth is made scandal, and right is made wrong,” said Manuel, “It will surely be a God-forgotten world!”
“WILL be? I think it is already!” said Prince Pietro. “It is said that the patience of the Almighty is unwearied, — but I do not feel sure of that in my own mind. Science teaches us that many a world has been destroyed before now, — and sometimes I feel as if our turn were soon coming!”
Here the man-servant having completely finished arranging the Cardinal’s attire, made respectful obeisance and left the room, and the Cardinal himself proceeded into the adjoining salon, where he found his niece Angela waiting to see him.
“Dearest uncle,” she said, making her pretty genuflection as he approached her, “I must ask you to forgive me for coming to your rooms just now when your time is so much taken up, and when I know you have to go to the Vatican, — but I want to tell you one thing that may perhaps please you, — my picture is finished!”
“Finished!” echoed the Cardinal — then tenderly taking her hands, he added, “I congratulate you, dear child, with all my heart! — and I pray that the reward of your long and patient toil may be worthy of you. And when are we to see your work?”
“To-morrow!” answered Angela, and her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled, “I shall be busy all today arranging it for exhibition in the best light. To-morrow morning Florian is to see it first, — then my father will come, and you — and Manuel!” and she smiled as she met the boy’s gentle look,— “And Queen Margherita has promised to be here at mid-day.”
“Florian first! And then your father!” said Prince Pietro, with a touch of melancholy in his tone, “Ah well, Angela mia! — I suppose it must always be so! The lover’s love — the stranger’s love, — is greater than the love of years, the love of home! Yet sometimes, I fancy that the lover’s love often turns out to be a passing impulse more than a real truth, and that the home-love reasserts itself afterwards with the best and the holiest power!”
And not trusting himself to say more, he abruptly left the room. Angela looked after him, a little troubled. The Cardinal took her hand.
“He is your father, dear girl!” he said gently, “And he cannot but feel it hard — at first — to be relegated to a second place in your affections.”
Angela sighed.
“I cannot help it!” she said, “Florian is my very life! I should have no ambition — no joy in anything if he did not love me!”
Over the Cardinal’s fine open face there came an expression of great pain.
“That is idolatry, Angela!” he said gravely, “We make a grievous mistake when we love human beings too deeply, — for they are not the gods we would make of them. Like ourselves, they are subject to sin, and their sins often create more unhappiness for us than our own!”
“Ah! But we can save our beloved ones from sin!” answered Angela, with a beautiful upward look of exaltation,— “That is love’s greatest mission!”
“It is a mission that cannot always be fulfilled” — said the Cardinal sorrowfully, — then, after a pause he added— “The Abbe Vergniaud is dead.”
“Dead!” And Angela turned very pale. “His son—”
“His son sends the message—” and he handed her the telegram he had received. She read it, and returned it to him, — then made the sign of the cross.
“May he rest in peace!” He died true!”
“Yes, he died true. But remember, child, neither Truth nor Love are spared their crown of thorns. Love cannot save — would that it could! It may warn — it may pray — it may watch — it may hope, — but if despite its tenderness, the sinner sins, what can love do then?”
“It can pardon!” said Angela softly.
Deeply moved, the good Felix took her hand and patted it gently.
“Dear child, God grant your powers of forgiveness may never be put to the test!” he ejaculated fervently. “The one unforgivable sin according to our Lord, is treachery; — may THAT never come your way!”
“It can never come my way through Florian!” answered Angela smiling,— “and for the rest — I do not care!”
Manuel stood by silently, with thoughtful, downcast eyes — but at these last words of hers he raised his head and looked full at her with a touch of melancholy in his straight regard.
“Ah, that is wrong!” he said, “You SHOULD care! — you MUST care for the rest of the world. We must all learn to care for others more than ourselves. And if we will not lear
n, God sometimes takes a hard way of teaching us!”
Angela’s head drooped a little. Then she said,
“I DO care for others, — I think perhaps my picture will prove that for me. But the tenderness I have for the sorrows of the world is impersonal; and perhaps if I analysed myself honestly, I feel even that through my love for Florian. If he were not in the world, I am afraid I should not love the world so much!”
The Cardinal said no more, for just then a servant entered and announced that His Eminence’s carriage was in waiting. Angela bending low once more before her uncle, kissed his apostolic ring, and said softly— “To-morrow!”
And Manuel echoed the word, “To-morrow!” as she bade them both a smiling “addio” and left the apartment. When she had gone, and he was left alone with his foundling, the Cardinal stood for a few minutes absorbed in silent meditation, mechanically gathering his robes about him. After a pause of evident hesitancy and trouble, he approached the boy and gently laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“Manuel,” he said, “Do you understand whom it is that you are going to see?”
“Yes,” replied Manuel quickly, “The Head of the Church. One who holds an office constituted by man long after Christ. It was founded upon the name and memory of the Apostle Peter, who publicly denied all knowledge of His Master. That is how I understand the person I am to see to-day!”
Cardinal Bonpre’s face was a study of varying expressions as he heard these words.
“My child, you must not say these things in the Pope’s presence!”
Manuel lifted his radiant eyes with a look of calm confidence.
“Dear friend, you must trust me!” he said, “They have sent for me, have they not, to this place you call the Vatican? They desire to see me, and to question me. That being so, whatever God bids me say, I will say; fearing nothing!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 499