Part 39 (1/2)
CHAPTER x.x.xVIII. THE CURE AND THE SEIGNEUR VISIT THE TAILOR
It had been a perfect September day. The tailor of Chaudiere had been busier than usual, for winter was within hail, and careful habitants were renewing their simple wardrobes. The Seigneur and the Cure arrived together, each to order the making of a greatcoat of the Irish frieze which the Seigneur kept in quant.i.ty at the Manor. The Seigneur was in rare spirits. And not without reason; for this was Michaelmas eve, and tomorrow would be Michaelmas day, and there was a promise to be redeemed on Michaelmas day! He had high hopes of its redemption according to his own wishes; for he was a vain Seigneur, and he had had his way in all things all his life, as everybody knew. Importunity with discretion was his motto, and he often vowed to the Cure that there was no other motto for the modern world.
The Cure's visit to the tailor's shop on this particular day had unusual interest, for it concerned his dear ambition, the fondest aspiration of his life: to bring the infidel tailor (they could not but call a man an infidel whose soul was negative--the word agnostic had not then become usual) from the chains of captivity into the freedom of the Church.
The Cure had ever clung to his fond hope; and it was due to his patient confidence that there were several paris.h.i.+oners who now carried Charley's name before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, and to the little calvaries by the road-side. The wife of Filion Laca.s.se never failed to pray for him every day. The thousand dollars gained by the saddler on the tailor's advice had made her life happier ever since, for Filion had become saving and prudent, and had even got her a ”hired girl.” There were at least a half-dozen other women, including Madame Dauphin, who did the same.
That he might listen again to the good priest on his holy hobby, inflamed with this pa.s.sion of missionary zeal, the Seigneur, this morning, had thrown doubt upon the ultimate success of the Cure's efforts.
”My dear Cure” said the Seigneur, ”it is true, I think, what the tailor suggested to my brother--on my soul, I wonder the Abbe gave in, for a more obstinate fellow I never knew!--that a man is born with the disbelieving maggot in his brain, or the b.u.t.terfly of belief, or whatever it may be called. It's const.i.tutional--may be criminal, but const.i.tutional. It seems to me you would stand more chance with the Jew, Greek, or heretic, than our infidel. He thinks too much--for a tailor, or for nine tailors, or for one man.”
He pulled his nose, as if he had said a very good thing indeed. They were walking slowly towards the village during this conversation, and the Cure, stopping short, brought his stick emphatically down in his palm several times, as he said:
”Ah, you will not see! You will not understand. With G.o.d all things are possible. Were it the devil himself in human form, I should work and pray and hope, as my duty is, though he should still remain the devil to the end. What am I? Nothing. But what the Church has done, the Church may do. Think of Paul and Augustine, and Constantine!”
”They were cla.s.sic barbarians to whom religion was but an emotion. This man has a brain which must be satisfied.”
”I must count him as a soul to be saved through that very intelligence, as well as through the goodness of his daily life, which, in its charity, shames us all. He gives all he earns to the sick and needy. He lives on fare as poor as the poorest of our people eat; he gives up his hours of sleep to nurse the sick. Dauphin might not have lived but for him. His heart is good, else these things were impossible. He could not act them.”
”But that's just it, Cure. Doesn't he act them? Isn't it a whim? What more likely than that, tired of the flesh-pots of Egypt, he comes here to live in the desert--for a sensation? We don't know.”
”We do know. The man has had sorrow and the man has had sin. Yes, believe me, there is none of us that suffers as this man has suffered.
I have had many, many talks with him. Believe me, Maurice, I speak the truth. My heart bleeds for him. I think I know the thing that drove him here amongst us. It is a great temptation, which pursues him here--even here, where his life is so commendable. I have seen him fighting it. I have seen his torture, the piteous, ign.o.ble yielding, and the struggle, with more than mortal energy, to be master of himself.”
”It is--” the Seigneur said, then paused.
”No, no; do not ask me. He has not confessed to me, Maurice-naturally, nothing like that. But I know. I know and pity--ah, Maurice, I almost love. You argue, and reason, but I know this, my friend, that something was left out of this man when he was made, and it is that thing that we must find, or he will die among us a ruined soul, and his gravestone will be the monument of our shame. If he can once trust the Church, if he can once say, 'Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,' then his temptation will vanish, and I shall bring him in--I shall lead him home.”
For an instant the Seigneur looked at him in amazement, for this was a Cure he had never known.
”Dear Cure, you are not your old self,” he said gently.
”I am not myself--yes, that is it, Maurice. I am not the old humdrum Cure you knew. The whole world is my field now. I have sorrowed for sin, within the bounds of this little Chaudiere. Now I sorrow for unbelief.
Through this man, through much thinking on him, I have come to feel the woe of all the world. I have come to hear the footsteps of the Master near. My friend, it is not a legend, not a belief now, it is a presence.
I owe him much, Maurice. In bringing him home, I shall understand what it all means--the faith that we profess. I shall in truth feel that it is all real. You see how much I may yet owe to him--to this infidel tailor. I only hope I have not betrayed him,” he added anxiously. ”I would keep faith with him--ah, yes, indeed!”
”I only remember that you have said the man suffers. That is no betrayal.”
They entered the village in silence. Presently, however, the sound of Maximilian Cour's violin, as they pa.s.sed the bakery, set the Seigneur's tongue wagging again, and it wagged on till they came to the tailor's shop.
”Good-day to you, Monsieur,” he said, as they entered.
”Have you a hot goose for me?”
”I have, but I will not press it on you,” replied Charley.
”Should you so take my question--eh?”
”Should you so take my 'anser'?”