The Village Rector

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"But he lives!" cried Denise.

The young abbe took the rector aside to explain to him the injurious
situation in which the impenitence of his parishioner placed religion,
and the duty the bishop imposed upon him.

"Monseigneur exacts my death," replied the rector. "I have already
refused the entreaties of the family to visit their unhappy son. Such
a conference and the sight of his death would shatter me like glass.
Every man must work as he can. The weakness of my organs, or rather,
the too great excitability of my nervous organization, prevents me
from exercising these functions of our ministry. I have remained a
simple rector expressly to be useful to my kind in a sphere in which I
can really accomplish my Christian duty. I have carefully considered
how far I could satisfy this virtuous family and do my pastoral duty
to this poor son; but the very idea of mounting the scaffold with him,
the mere thought of assisting in those fatal preparations, sends a
shudder as of death through my veins. It would not be asked of a
mother; and remember, monsieur, he was born in the bosom of my poor
church."

"So," said the Abbe Gabriel, "you refuse to obey Monseigneur?"

"Monseigneur is ignorant of the state of my health; he does not know
that in a constitution like mine nature refuses--" said Monsieur
Bonnet, looking at the younger priest.

"There are times when we ought, like Belzunce at Marseille, to risk
certain death," replied the Abbe Gabriel, interrupting him.

At this moment the rector felt a hand pulling at his cassock; he heard
sobs, and turning round he saw the whole family kneeling before him.
Young and old, small and great, all were stretching their supplicating
hands to him. One sole cry rose from their lips as he turned his face
upon them:--

"Save his soul, at least!"

The old grandmother it was who had pulled his cassock and was wetting
it with her tears.

"I shall obey, monsieur."

That said, the rector was forced to sit down, for his legs trembled
under him. The young secretary explained the frenzied state of the
criminal's mind.

"Do you think," he said, as he ended his account, "that the sight of
his young sister would shake his determination?"

"Yes, I do," replied the rector. "Denise, you must go with us."

"And I, too," said the mother.

"No!" cried the father; "that child no longer exists for us, and you
know it. None of us shall see him."

"Do not oppose what may be for his salvation," said the young abbe.
"You will be responsible for his soul if you refuse us the means of
softening it. His death may possibly do more injury than his life has
done."

"She may go," said the father; "it shall be her punishment for
opposing all the discipline I ever wished to give her son."

The Abbe Gabriel and Monsieur Bonnet returned to the parsonage, where
Denise and her mother were requested to come in time to start for
Limoges with the two ecclesiastics.

As the younger man walked along the path which followed the outskirts
of upper Montegnac he was able to examine the village priest so warmly
commended by the vicar-general less superficially than he did in
church. He felt at once inclined in his favor, by the simple manners,
the voice full of magic power, and the words in harmony with the voice
of the village rector. The latter had only visited the bishop's palace
once since the prelate had taken Gabriel de Rastignac as secretary. He
had hardly seen this favorite, destined for the episcopate, though he
knew how great his influence was. Nevertheless, he behaved with a
dignified courtesy that plainly showed the sovereign independence
which the Church bestows on rectors in their parishes. But the
feelings of the young abbe, far from animating his face, gave it a
stern expression; it was more than cold, it was icy. A man capable of
changing the moral condition of a whole population must surely possess
some powers of observation, and be more or less of a physiognomist;
and even if the rector had no other science than that of goodness, he
had just given proof of rare sensibility. He was therefore struck by
the coldness with which the bishop's secretary met his courteous
advances. Compelled to attribute this manner to some secret annoyance,
the rector sought in his own mind to discover if he had wounded his
guest, or in what way his conduct could seem blameworthy in the eyes
of his superiors.

An awkward silence ensued, which the Abbe de Rastignac broke by a
speech that was full of aristocratic assumption.

"You have a very poor church, monsieur," he said.

"It is too small," replied Monsieur Bonnet. "On the great fete-days
the old men bring benches to the porch, and the young men stand
outside in a circle; but the silence is so great that all can hear my
voice."

Gabriel was silent for some moments.

"If the inhabitants are so religious how can you let the building
remain in such a state of nudity?" he said at last.

"Alas, monsieur, I have not the courage to spend the money which is
needed for the poor on decorating the church,--the poor are the
church. I assure I should not be ashamed of my church if Monseigneur
should visit it on the Fete-Dieu. The poor return on that day what
they have received. Did you notice the nails which are placed at
certain distances on the walls? They are used to hold a sort of
trellis of iron wire on which the women fasten bouquets; the church is
fairly clothed with flowers, and they keep fresh all day. My poor
church, which you think so bare, is decked like a bride; it is filled
with fragrance; even the floor is strewn with leaves, in the midst of
which they make a path of scattered roses for the passage of the holy
sacrament. That's a day on which I do not fear comparison with the
pomps of Saint-Peter at Rome; the Holy Father has his gold, and I my
flowers,--to each his own miracle. Ah! monsieur, the village of
Montegnac is poor, but it is Catholic. In former times the inhabitants
robbed travellers; now travellers may leave a sack full of money where
they please and they will find it in my house."

"That result is to your glory," said Gabriel.

"It is not a question of myself," replied the rector, coloring at this
labored compliment, "but of God's word, of the blessed bread--"

"Brown bread," remarked the abbe, smiling.

"White bread only suits the stomachs of the rich," replied the rector,
modestly.

The young abbe took the hands of the older priest and pressed them
cordially.

"Forgive me, monsieur," he said, suddenly making amends with a look in
his beautiful blue eyes which went to the depths of the rector's soul.
"Monseigneur told me to test your patience and your modesty, but I
can't go any further; I see already how much injustice the praises of
the liberals have done you."

Breakfast was ready; fresh eggs, butter, honey, fruits, cream, and
coffee were served by Ursule in the midst of flowers, on a white cloth
laid upon the antique table in that old dining-room. The window which
looked upon the terrace was open; clematis, with its white stars
relieved in the centre by the yellow bunch of their crisped stamens,
clasped the railing. A jasmine ran up one side, nasturtiums clambered
over the other. Above, the reddening foliage of a vine made a rich
border that no sculptor could have rendered, so exquisite was the
tracery of its lace-work against the light.

"Life is here reduced, you see, to its simplest expression," said the
rector, smiling, though his face did not lose the look which the
sadness of his heart conveyed to it. "If we had known of your arrival
(but who could have foreseen your errand?) Ursule would have had some
mountain trout for you; there's a brook in the forest where they are
excellent. I forget, however, that this is August and the Gabou is
dry. My head is confused with all these troubles."

"Then you like your life here?" said the young abbe.

"Yes, monsieur; if God wills, I shall die rector of Montegnac. I could
have wished that my example were followed by certain distinguished men
who have thought they did better things in becoming philanthropists.
But modern philanthropy is an evil to society; the principles of the
Catholic religion can alone cure the diseases which permeate social
bodies. Instead of describing those diseases and extending their
ravages by complaining elegies, they should put their hand to the work
and enter the Lord's vineyard as simple laborers. My task is far from
being accomplished here, monsieur. It is not enough to reform the
people, whom I found in a frightful condition of impiety and
wickedness; I wish to die in the midst of a generation of true
believers."

"You have only done your duty, monsieur," said the young man, still
coldly, for his heart was stirred with envy.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the rector, modestly, giving his companion a
glance which seemed to say: Is this a further test? "I pray that all
may do their duty throughout the kingdom."

This remark, full of deep meaning, was still further emphasized by a
tone of utterance, which proved that in 1829 this priest, as grand in
thought as he was noble in humility of conduct, and who subordinated
his thoughts to those of his superiors, saw clearly into the destinies
of both church and monarchy.

When the two afflicted women came the young abbe, very impatient to
get back to Limoges, left the parsonage to see if the horses were
harnessed. A few moments later he returned to say that all was ready.
All four then started under the eyes of the whole population of
Montegnac, which was gathered in the roadway before the post-house.
The mother and sister kept silence. The two priests, seeing rocks
ahead in many subjects, could neither talk indifferently nor allow
themselves to be cheerful. While seeking for some neutral subject the
carriage crossed the plain, the aspect of which dreary region seemed
to influence the duration of their melancholy silence.

"How came you to adopt the ecclesiastical profession?" asked the Abbe
Gabriel, suddenly, with an impulsive curiosity which seized him as
soon as the carriage turned into the high-road.

"I did not look upon the priesthood as a profession," replied the
rector, simply. "I cannot understand how a man can become a priest for
any other reason than the undefinable power of vocation. I know that
many men have served in the Lord's vineyard who have previously worn
out their hearts in the service of passion; some have loved
hopelessly, others have had their love betrayed; men have lost the
flower of their lives in burying a precious wife or an adored
mistress; some have been disgusted with social life at a period when
uncertainty hovers over everything, even over feelings, and doubt
mocks tender certainties by calling them beliefs; others abandon
politics at a period when power seems to be an expiation and when the
governed regard obedience as fatality. Many leave a society without
banners; where opposing forces only unite to overthrow good. I do not
think that any man would give himself to God from a covetous motive.
Some men have looked upon the priesthood as a means of regenerating
our country; but, according to my poor lights, a priest-patriot is a
meaningless thing. The priest can only belong to God. I did not wish
to offer our Father--who nevertheless accepts all--the wreck of my
heart and the fragments of my will; I gave myself to him whole. In one
of those touching theories of pagan religion, the victim sacrificed to
the false gods goes to the altar decked with flowers. The significance
of that custom has always deeply touched me. A sacrifice is nothing
without grace. My life is simple and without the very slightest
romance. My father, who has made his own way in the world, is a stern,
inflexible man; he treats his wife and his children as he treats
himself. I have never seen a smile upon his lips. His iron hand, his
stern face, his gloomy, rough activity, oppressed us all--wife,
children, clerks and servants--under an almost savage despotism. I
could--I speak for myself only--I could have accommodated myself to
this life if the power thus exercised had had an equal repression;
but, captious and vacillating, he treated us all with intolerable
alternations. We were always ignorant whether we were doing right or
whether he considered us to blame; and the horrible expectancy which
results from that is torture in domestic life. A street life seems
better than a home under such circumstances. Had I been alone in the
house I would have borne all from my father without murmuring; but my
heart was torn by the bitter, unceasing anguish of my dear mother,
whom I ardently loved and whose tears put me sometimes into a fury in
which I nearly lost my reason. My school days, when boys are usually
so full of misery and hard work, were to me a golden period. I dreaded
holidays. My mother herself preferred to come and see me. When I had
finished my philosophical course and was forced to return home and
become my father's clerk, I could not endure it more than a few
months; my mind, bewildered by the fever of adolescence, threatened to
give way. On a sad autumn evening as I was walking alone with my
mother along the Boulevard Bourdon, then one of the most melancholy
parts of Paris, I poured my heart into hers, and I told her that I saw
no possible life before me except in the Church. My tastes, my ideas,
all that I most loved would be continually thwarted so long as my
father lived. Under the cassock of a priest he would be forced to
respect me, and I might thus on certain occasions become the protector
of my family. My mother wept much. Just at this period my eldest
brother (since a general and killed at Leipzig) had entered the army
as a private soldier, driven from his home for the same reasons that
made me wish to be a priest. I showed my mother that her best means of
protection would be to marry my sister, as soon as she was old enough,
to some man of strong character, and to look for help to this new
family. Under pretence of avoiding the conscription without costing my
father a penny to buy me off, I entered the seminary of Saint-Sulpice
at the age of nineteen. Within those celebrated old buildings I found
a peace and happiness that were troubled only by the thought of my
mother and my sister's sufferings. Their domestic misery, no doubt,
went on increasing; for whenever they saw me they sought to strengthen
my resolution. Perhaps I had been initiated into the secrets of
charity, such as our great Saint Paul defines it, by my own trials. At
any rate, I longed to stanch the wounds of the poor in some forgotten
corner of the earth, and to prove by my example, if God would deign to
bless my efforts, that the Catholic religion, judged by its actions
for humanity, is the only true, the only beneficent and noble
civilizing force. During the last days of my diaconate, grace, no
doubt, enlightened me. I have fully forgiven my father, regarding him
as the instrument of my destiny. My mother, though I wrote her a long
and tender letter, explaining all things and proving to her that the
finger of God was guiding me, my poor mother wept many tears as she
saw my hair cut off by the scissors of the Church. She knew herself
how many pleasures I renounced, but she did not know the secret
glories to which I aspired. Women are so tender! After I once belonged
to God I felt a boundless peace; I felt no needs, no vanities, none of
those cares which trouble men so much. I knew that Providence would
take care of me as a thing of its own. I entered a world from which
all fear is banished; where the future is certain; where all things
are divine, even the silence. This quietude is one of the benefactions
of grace. My mother could not conceive that a man could espouse a
church. Nevertheless, seeing me happy, with a cloudless brow, she grew
happier herself. After I was ordained I came to the Limousin to visit
one of my paternal relations, who chanced to speak to me of the then
condition of Montegnac. A thought darted into my mind with the
vividness of lightning, and I said to myself inwardly: 'Here is thy
vineyard!' I came here, and you see, monsieur, that my history is very
simple and uneventful."

At this instant Limoges came into sight, bathed in the last rays of
the setting sun. When the women saw it they could not restrain their
tears; they wept aloud.



IX

DENISE

The young man whom these two different loves were now on their way to
comfort, who excited so much artless curiosity, so much spurious
sympathy and true solicitude, was lying on his prison pallet in one of
the condemned cells. A spy watched beside the door to catch, if
possible, any words that might escape him, either in sleep or in one
of his violent furies; so anxious were the officers of justice to
exhaust all human means of discovering Jean-Francois Tascheron's
accomplice and recover the sums stolen.

The des Vanneaulx had promised a reward to the police, and the police
kept constant watch on the obstinate silence of the prisoner. When the
man on duty looked through a loophole made for the purpose he saw the
convict always in the same position, bound in the straight-jacket, his
head secured by a leather thong ever since he had attempted to tear
the stuff of the jacket with his teeth.

Jean-Francois gazed steadily at the ceiling with a fixed and
despairing eye, a burning eye, as if reddened by the terrible thoughts
behind it. He was a living image of the antique Prometheus; the memory
of some lost happiness gnawed at his heart. When the solicitor-general
himself went to see him that magistrate could not help testifying his
surprise at a character so obstinately persistent. No sooner did any
one enter his cell than Jean-Francois flew into a frenzy which
exceeded the limits known to physicians for such attacks. The moment
he heard the key turn in the lock or the bolts of the barred door
slide, a light foam whitened his lips.

Jean-Francois Tascheron, then twenty-five years of age, was small but
well-made. His wiry, crinkled hair, growing low on his forehead,
indicated energy. His eyes, of a clear and luminous yellow, were too
near the root of the nose,--a defect which gave him some resemblance
to birds of prey. The face was round, of the warm brown coloring which
marks the inhabitants of middle France. One feature of his physiognomy
confirmed an assertion of Lavater as to persons who are destined to
commit murder; his front teeth lapped each other. Nevertheless his
face bore all the characteristics of integrity and a sweet and artless
moral nature; there was nothing surprising in the fact that a woman
had loved him passionately. His fresh mouth with its dazzling teeth
was charming, but the vermilion of the lips was of the red-lead tint
which indicates repressed ferocity, and, in many human beings, a free
abandonment to pleasure. His demeanor showed none of the low habits of
a workman. In the eyes of the women who were present at the trial it
seemed evident that one of their sex had softened those muscles used
to toil, had ennobled the countenance of the rustic, and given grace
to his person. Women can always detect the traces of love in a man,
just as men can see in a woman whether, as the saying is, love has
passed that way.

Toward evening of the day we are now relating Jean-Francois heard the
sliding of bolts and the noise of the key in the lock. He turned his
head violently and gave vent to the horrible growl with which his
frenzies began; but he trembled all over when the beloved heads of his
sister and his mother stood out against the fading light, and behind
them the face of the rector of Montegnac.

"The wretches! is this why they keep me alive?" he said, closing his
eyes.

Denise, who had lately been confined in a prison, was distrustful of
everything; the spy had no doubt hidden himself merely to return in a
few moments. The girl flung herself on her brother, bent her tearful
face to his and whispered:--

"They may be listening to us."

"Otherwise they would not have let you come here," he replied in a
loud voice. "I have long asked the favor that none of my family should
be admitted here."

"Oh! how they have bound him!" cried the mother. "My poor child! my
poor boy!" and she fell on her knees beside the pallet, hiding her
head in the cassock of the priest, who was standing by her.

"If Jean will promise me to be quiet," said the rector, "and not
attempt to injure himself, and to behave properly while we are with
him, I will ask to have him unbound; but the least violation of his
promise will reflect on me."

"I do so want to move as I please, dear Monsieur Bonnet," said the
criminal, his eyes moistening with tears, "that I give you my word to
do as you wish."

The rector went out, and returned with the jailer, and the jacket was
taken off.

"You won't kill me to-night, will you?" said the turnkey.

Jean made no answer.

"Poor brother!" said Denise, opening a basket which had just passed
through a rigorous examination. "Here are some of the things you like;
I dare say they don't feed you for the love of God."

She showed him some fruit, gathered as soon as the rector had told her
she could go to the jail, and a _galette_ his mother had immediately
baked for him. This attention, which reminded him of his boyhood, the
voice and gestures of his sister, the presence of his mother and the
rector, brought on a reaction and he burst into tears.

"Ah! Denise," he said, "I have not had a good meal for six months. I
eat only when driven to it by hunger."

The mother and sister went out and then returned; with the natural
housekeeping spirit of such women, who want to give their men material
comfort, they soon had a supper for their poor child. In this the
officials helped them; for an order had been given to do all that
could with safety be done for the condemned man. The des Vanneaulx had
contributed, with melancholy hope, toward the comfort of the man from
whom they still expected to recover their inheritance. Thus poor
Jean-Francois had a last glimpse of family joys, if joys they could be
called under such circumstances.

"Is my appeal rejected?" he said to Monsieur Bonnet.

"Yes, my child; nothing is left for you to do but to make a Christian
end. This life is nothing in comparison to that which awaits you; you
must think now of your eternal happiness. You can pay your debt to man
with your life, but God is not content with such a little thing as
that."

"Give up my life! Ah! you do not know all that I am leaving."

Denise looked at her brother as if to warn him that even in matters of
religion he must be cautious.

"Let us say no more about it," he resumed, eating the fruit with an
avidity which told of his inward fire. "When am I--"

"No, no! say nothing of that before me!" said the mother.

"But I should be easier in mind if I knew," he said, in a low voice to
the rector.

"Always the same nature," exclaimed Monsieur Bonnet. Then he bent down
to the prisoner's ear and whispered, "If you will reconcile yourself
this night with God so that your repentance will enable me to absolve
you, it will be to-morrow. We have already gained much in calming
you," he said, aloud.

Hearing these last words, Jean's lips turned pale, his eyes rolled up
in a violent spasm, and an angry shudder passed through his frame.

"Am I calm?" he asked himself. Happily his eyes encountered the
tearful face of Denise, and he recovered his self-control. "So be it,"
he said to the rector; "there is no one but you to whom I would
listen; they have known how to conquer me."

And he flung himself on his mother's breast.

"My son," said the mother, weeping, "listen to Monsieur Bonnet; he
risks his life, the dear rector, in going to you to--" she hesitated,
and then said, "to the gate of eternal life."

Then she kissed Jean's head and held it to her breast for some
moments.

"Will he, indeed, go with me?" asked Jean, looking at the rector, who
bowed his head in assent. "Well, yes, I will listen to him; I will do
all he asks of me."

"You promise it?" said Denise. "The saving of your soul is what we
seek. Besides, you would not have all Limoges and the village say that
a Tascheron knows not how to die a noble death? And then, too, think
that all you lose here you will regain in heaven, where pardoned souls
will meet again."

This superhuman effort parched the throat of the heroic girl. She was
silent after this, like her mother, but she had triumphed. The
criminal, furious at seeing his happiness torn from him by the law,
now quivered at the sublime Catholic truth so simply expressed by his
sister. All women, even young peasant-women like Denise, know how to
touch these delicate chords; for does not every woman seek to make
love eternal? Denise had touched two chords, each most sensitive.
Awakened pride called on the other virtues chilled by misery and
hardened by despair. Jean took his sister's hand and kissed it, and
laid it on his heart in a deeply significant manner; he applied it
both gently and forcibly.