-r--" 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 2201.B8T81 1874 
 
 Louis XV and his times 
 
 3 1924 027 276 538 
 
a Cornell University 
 S Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027276538 
 
L 
 
LOUIS XV AND HIS TIMES 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 PRIEST AND THE HUGUENOT. 
 
 PROM THE FRENCH OP 
 
 L. L. F. BUNGENER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF BOUKDALOUE AND LOUIS XIV, KADAUT AND BRIDAINB, 
 
 AND "the tower OF CONSTANCY.*' 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY D. LOTHROP & CO. 
 
 DOVER, N. H. : G. T. DAY & CO. 
 1874. 
 
4' 5-7 
 
 5-3 
 
 ~y :'~-':^-ir-~'liy'f=d^i-Sb 
 
 RrK'Kwrr.T. & Ciiuacini,!,. r-in.. 
 11:2 Washington St., Bostoa. 
 
 C^. 
 
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PK E F A C E 
 
 THE TEANSLATOR. 
 
 After tlie very favorable reception of the " Preachei 
 and ttie King," it seems altogetlier unnecessary to preface 
 tlie present work by any account of its purpose or 
 merits. 
 
 It may, however, be well to inform the reader that in 
 a cominunication lately received from the author, Mon- 
 sieur Bungener, a minister of the Eeformed Church of 
 Geneva — ^not France, as was stated in the preface to the 
 preceding work — ^he informs the translator that his works 
 have been conceived upon the plan of exhibiting in a 
 series, the principal religious aspects of France, from the 
 age of Louis XIY., to the close of the last century. 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 The first of the series is already in the hands of Amer- 
 ican readers ; the second is now presented to them in 
 these volumes ; the third, entitled Voltaire and his Times, 
 is about to be published in England, and the last, Julian, 
 or the End of a Century, we hope, in due time, to add to 
 the number of American books. The author has not 
 yet quite completed this last work. 
 
 He will thus have brought out, in his very graphic 
 and popular manner, the state and relations of French 
 Protestantism from the time immediately preceding the 
 revocation of the Nantz Edict, down to the begianing 
 of our own times. 
 
 The early portions of this eventful history are more 
 familiar to us than the events which followed the worst 
 severities of the persecution. The history of Protest- 
 antism in the South of France, after its decimation by 
 the confiscations, violent conversions, exiles and death 
 inflicted in the time of Louis XIV., is but little known. 
 The author aims to revive the men and incidents of those 
 periods which followed the atrocious dragonnades. He 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 carries us into the remoter parts of Languedoc, known 
 as- "the Desert," the last stronghold in which the Prot- 
 estants defied their relentless persecutors. 
 
 From the lips of old Eeboul, one of the characters of 
 the present work, we have a bold and faithful sketch of 
 the sufferings and enthusiastic fervors which character- 
 ized the Camisard war. Hunted like wild beasts, and 
 depri ved of their spiritual guides, the desperation of these 
 unhappy, proscribed beings took the form of frenzy, 
 and at the bidding of enthusiasts, performed -wonderful 
 feats of valor indeed, but at the expense of the intelH- 
 gent scriptural principles of their rehgion. The conse- 
 quence was a total and wide-spread disorganization. 
 
 One of the most interesting portions of the present 
 work, is that relating to the vast labors of Antoine 
 Court, one of the very few pastors left in France, and 
 called of God, while still very young, to the great wort 
 of calming and reorganizing the disturbed elements of 
 Protestantism. 
 
 It is shortly after the period of his labors, that our 
 
XW PREFACE. 
 
 story commences. Paul Kabaut is now tte leading spirit 
 of tlie French churclies, and in his movements, and the 
 fate of those connected with him, lies a great part of the 
 interest of this work. 
 
 How the author has succeeded in interweaving and de- 
 hneating the details of martyrdom — as in the deaths of 
 Eochette and Galas — ^in introducing the champions of in- 
 fidelity, with their principles, and the consequences of 
 their principles — as in the scenes concerning Helvdtius, 
 Diderot, and the others who were then beginning their 
 bitter and systematic assaults against the first principles 
 of rehgion — in contrasting these with the simple, yet 
 thoughtful and dignified belief of Eabaut and his com- 
 panions — ^in depicting the wonderful inconsistencies and 
 disorganization of the political and financial state of the 
 period — in bringing together Eabaut, the Huguenot, 
 and Bridaine, the priest, putting iato their mouths the 
 main principles on either side of the great contro- 
 versy — ^in short, h^w he has succeeded in layiag a great 
 portion of the age before us, it is for the reader to 
 pronounce. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 It is a recommendation of tliese works, that they pre- 
 sent these principal points of controversy in a succinct 
 and popular form, and in a candid and liberal spirit. The 
 extreme gentleness of the writer must be obvious. He 
 »eaves his facts to speak, rarely indulging in a sarcasm, 
 and scarcely ever uttering the vehement indignation 
 which the atrocious oppressions and monstrous doctrines 
 of popery would justify. 
 
 The character of that great anti-christian system has 
 not changed with time. It has been in a measure de- 
 prived of power, that is all. Wherever power remains 
 in its possession, it is still employed, as formerly, in 
 imprisoning and exiling its victims, as well as in exer- 
 cising upon them many lesser forms of tyranny and 
 violence. 
 
 Our own day furnishes proofs enough of this. Ma- 
 deira and Tuscany have furnished many martyrs in this 
 nineteenth century. 
 
 To keep out thought by penal restrictions, and when 
 it enters, to cast it out with violence, is the purpose of 
 
XViii PREFACE. 
 
 Eomanism, very candidly avowed by some of its adher- 
 ents, even in our own free land. It is not accidentally 
 but constitutionally intolerant. Every contribution to 
 tlie evidence which proves this, is invaluable, and we are 
 grateful for the fidelity and earnestness with which our 
 author lends his aid. 
 
 The translator has only to add that her task has been 
 
 pleasant, but not unattended with anxiety, lest she should 
 
 fail in her aim to render the author's meaning with scru 
 
 pulous fidehty, and yet at the same time to preserve the 
 
 peculiar vivacity which forms so striking a characteristic 
 
 of the French style of thought and expression. 
 
 M. E. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FAGK 
 
 Ihteoduotion ". xiii 
 
 AT COUET. 
 
 I. — A Traveller 25 
 
 H — Bossuet's Tomb 26 
 
 III— The Unknown 29 
 
 IV. — Rehearsal of a Seemon 3S 
 
 V. — Escape from Imprisonment 40 
 
 VI. — The Priest and the Huqdenot 42 
 
 VII.— The Beogae 43 
 
 VIII. — The Cetenol's Story 47 
 
 IX. — Thb Paudons of the Church 49 
 
 X. — The Cevenoj 's Stort. '. 50 
 
XX CONTENTS. 
 
 FADE 
 
 XI. — The LivTTEc. Fathee Bkidaine's Sermon. Confession 66 
 
 XIL — A Discovery. The Arrest 69 
 
 Xllt— The Bishop of Meaux 62 
 
 XIV. — The toung Marquis 66 
 
 XV. — Kemonstranoes '?! 
 
 XVI. — The Abbe's Sermon 15 
 
 XVII. — Embarrassment. More Remonstrances 18 
 
 X VIIL— To Paris. The two Missives 80 
 
 XIX. CONTEADIOTIONS AND INCONSISTENCIES 83 
 
 XX. — True Position of the Jesuits 85 
 
 XXI. — Expulsion of the Jesuits from Portuqal 86 
 
 XXII. — Jescits in France 89 
 
 XXIII. — Secret Pl.ins. De Beaumont 91 
 
 tXIV. — The Bull Unigenitus 92 
 
 XXV. — The Place de Grete. The Priest and the Huguenot. 97 
 
 XXVI. — Tender Mercies of the Paruament 100 
 
 XXVII. — The Protestants 103 
 
 XXVIII. — The Memorial 107 
 
 XXIX. — Prospects of Success 109 
 
 XXX. — "The Great ■Workshop" 113 
 
 XXXI. — D'Alembert and Diderot 115 
 
 XXXII. — I-Iypocrist. 118 
 
 XXXm.— The Encyclopedists in full Conclave 122 
 
 XXXIV.— Babaut 131 
 
CONTENTS. XXI 
 
 PAOE 
 
 XXXV. — At Table. Eabaut's Nakkative 133 
 
 XXXVI. — Discussion. Ebbonkods Impressions. Prophetic 142 
 
 XXXVIL — Insincerity of Authors and Readers 151 
 
 XXXVIII.— Accounted for 164 
 
 XXXIX. — Revival of energetic Efforts among Romanists, a 
 
 FAVORABLE SiGN 156 
 
 XL. — Conference of the Jesuits, at the archiepibcopal 
 
 Palace 158 
 
 XLI — Father Desmaeets 165 
 
 XLII. — Policy of the Jesuits when attacked 166 
 
 XLin. — Letter from Laurent Kaulen 169 
 
 XLIV. — Father Beidaine's Censure 171 
 
 XLV.— Plain Speaking 176 
 
 XL VI. — Jesuit Morality 180 
 
 XLVIL — Startlirq Proposal 184 
 
 XL VIII. — Petty Motives for great Changes 189 
 
 XLIX. — A Prime Minister 191 
 
 L. — Warring Elements 193 
 
 LI. — Soiree AT the Minister's Hotel, The Abbe 195 
 
 LII. — Two Men of the new Regime. Wit of the Eighteenth 
 
 Century 200 
 
 LIII.— Plans 204 
 
 LIV. — Unexpected Arrival. A Prime Minister in Agonies. 
 
 Jesuit and Jansenist 207 
 
 LV. — What next ? 214 
 
XXU CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 LVI. DiFLOMACr AND JESUITISM 215 
 
 LVII. — An Apparition 221 
 
 LVIII. — A crushing Disappointment 223 
 
 IjIX. — Palaces of Louis XV. Choist. Bellevue 225 
 
 LX. — The King and his Confidant. Voltaire's Letter. Van- 
 ity OF Richelieu. The Marquise 227 
 
 LXL — The Conscience of Louis XV 239 
 
 LXII. — M.ME. DE Pompadour. The King's Indifference to his 
 
 Family 242 
 
 XiXIII. — Old Habits. Voltaire's Dedication of Taxcred. Riche- 
 lieu's Orthography. A new Word 245 
 
 LXIV. — New Words and Ide-^s 254 
 
 LXV. — Banish Thought 255 
 
 LXVL — The anxious Abbe. Toilette Receptions 257 
 
 LXVIL — Toilette of Mme. de Pompadour 260 
 
 LXVIIL — The young Author 202 
 
 LXIX. — Petitions, Plans, Suggestions, Appeals 265 
 
 LXX.- Maei«(Ny. The King and his Architect. Great Plans 268 
 LXXL — TiiK King's Arrival. Voltaire's Dedication again. 
 
 Characteristics (.if the Nobility of France 279 
 
 LXXIL — Rising Hopes 286 
 
 LXXHL— The royal Chapel of Versailles. Louis XV. and 
 
 HIS Children 287 
 
 LXXIV. — The Gallery leading to the Chapel 291 
 
 LXXV. — The Priest and the Huguenot 292 
 
CONTENTS. XXIU 
 
 PARE 
 
 LXXVI. — The mtsteeiocs Lutee. High Mass 2'J4 
 
 LXXVII. — The Abbe's Uneasiness. The Letter. Total Disoom- 
 
 FITUIIE 296 
 
 LXXVIII. — FnaT. A strange Proposal 299 
 
 LXXIX. — Bbidaine in the Pulpit 301 
 
 LXXX. — Three Hearers. " No Man can serve two Masters" 303 
 
 LXXXI. — Character of Saint Paul. Where are the Martyrs 
 
 OF CUE Day ? Reply of Bridaine's HE,iRT. SOS 
 
^T COUHT 
 
 A TRAVELLER. 
 
 One day, towards the end of July, in the year 1760, a 
 priest might have been seen proceeding with rapid steps 
 towards one of the doors of the cathedral of Meaux. 
 
 He wore a travelling dress, broad-brimmed hat, small 
 bands, brown cloak, gaiters and dusty shoes. His figure was 
 tall and erect; his eye quick and intelligent, although set 
 beneath a somewhat low forehead, and his physiognomy 
 rather rugged than grave. It was impossible at this moment 
 to decide whether he was agitated, or only hurried. 
 
 However, a few steps from the door, a more decided emo- 
 tion began to be visible in his countenance ; he slackened his 
 pace involuntarily ; his eyes were turned towards the interior 
 of the church, and seemed already to seek something there. 
 As he was about to cross the threshold, 
 
 " Charity ! Monsieur I'Abbe !" said one of the numerous 
 beggars, kneeling or sitting, according to custom, on each side 
 of the entrance. 
 
 And as the ab,be appeared neither to hear nor see him, he 
 repeated, " Charity !" 
 
26 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 His tone, in spite of a tolerably marked Southern accent, 
 was proud and short ; he did not beg— he demanded. It was 
 like a profound indignation, seeking an occasion to burst forth. 
 Accordingly, whispers were exchanged by the other mendi- 
 cants. 
 
 " He is crazy, that man," said a woman. " Is that the way 
 to talk 1" 
 
 "And to a priest !" said another. " And the first day, too !'' 
 murmured a blind man. The priest had heard these last 
 words as he turned. He cast upon the beggar first an unob 
 serving, and then a more attentive look. 
 
 " Do I understand aright that it is thy first day 1" he said. 
 " Thou dost not yet know how to beg — " 
 
 " I know that I am hungry, and that — " 
 
 " Thou art hungry 1" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Thouliest!" 
 
 H J » 
 
 "Thouliest, I tell thee!" 
 
 And the bold beggar cu'^t down his eyes. 
 
 "Tliou art not liiini,n-v," resumed tlic priest, slowly, "and 
 thou art not what tliou — " 
 
 Tlie I)L'gi,'ar started, and at his frightened look, the priest 
 interrupted himself. "Wait for me here," ho said to him; 
 " I wish to speak with thee."' And ho disappeared wit nili the 
 jhurtli. 
 
 II. 
 
 bossuet's tomb. 
 
 He had taken only a few steps, when he stopped, as if he 
 did not know which way to turn. The chureh was deserted 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 27 
 
 and gloomy, for night was coming on. No sounds were heard, 
 save here and there the murmured prayers of some women, 
 kneeling in the chapels and beside the columns. 
 
 Perceiving no one who appeared able to guide him in his 
 search, he went straight on, and after kneeling rapidly, with 
 a sign of the cross, upon the first step of the high altar, he 
 turned to the left, and began to read, while he walked on, the 
 monumental inscriptions which covered the walls and pave- 
 ment. It grew darker and darker, and at each tomb he was 
 obliged to stoop lower than before. His impatience accord 
 ingly increased at every step. One would have said that he 
 was irritated at these dead, known or unknown, who came so 
 inopportunely to place themselves between him and the object 
 of his search. 
 
 At length he stopped abruptly. Behind the high altar, 
 against the wall, on a marble tablet, upon which a mitre was 
 executed in relief above some books of tolerably good design, 
 he had perceived these words : 
 
 " Hie quiescit resiirreetionem expectans, 
 
 Jacobus Beuigni Bossuet, 
 
 Episcopus Meldensis ; 
 
 Serenissimi Delphini prseceptor; 
 
 Universitatis Parisiensis 
 
 Privilegiorum apostolioorum conservator ; 
 
 Collegii Regii Navarrse superior. 
 
 Obiit Anno Domini MDCCIV. 
 
 Annos natus LXXVI. 
 
 Requiescat in pace." * 
 
 * "Here rests, awaiting the resurrection, James Benignus Bossuet, 
 bishop of Meaux, preceptor of his serene highness the Dauphin, pre- 
 server of the apostolical privileges of the University of Paris, and 
 superior of the Royal College of Navarre. Died in the year of our 
 Lord 1704, at the age of "76. May he rest in peace." 
 
28 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 The priest had not gone beyond the second line. What were 
 these titles, these dates, to him? He was only seeking a 
 name, and this name he had found ; his eyes wore fixed upon 
 it. It might have been imagined, that through the stone he 
 perceived the well-known features of him whose resting place 
 was pointed out by this marble. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured, " hie qukscit — he is there — quiescit. 
 I love the word, he rests. He has all eternity to rest in, as he 
 said to his friends, to Arnauld and Nicole, when they coun- 
 selled him to take a little rest in this world. He rests! 
 After sixty years of labor, this word is a complete eulogy. 
 If it be written one day on my tomb, will it be there also an 
 eulogy ■? Will it be said — but let men say what they will. 
 What differenee does it make to him who is lying there what 
 I am saying about this epitaph 1 But Thou, O God ! what 
 wilt Thou say ? Wilt Thou find that I have fulfilled my task 1 
 Qukscit. He is there." 
 
 He reached out his hand towards tlie marble ; he seemed 
 expecting to feel it soften beneath his fingers. 
 
 " Does he see me V he resumed. " Am I permitted to 
 think that my labors, tli;it — but no. Back, self, back ! While 
 I am here, almost on my knees before his tomb, behold my 
 pride, which follows me even into the presence of the glory 
 before whieh I seem to humiliate myself! Even beside these 
 ashes, which teach me also the nothingness of man, I asked if 
 he sees me, hears me ! Thus it is : it is not enough that we 
 are seen and heard by the living ; wo wish also to be seen and 
 heard by the dead. Ah ! poor wretched heart ! After having 
 preached so long to others, am I no further advanced myself! 
 Who, then, will preach to me ? Alas ! and he also — how 
 often has he sought his own glory, believing all the while that 
 he was seckina that of God alone !" 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 29 
 
 He ceased, and after a long silence, he continued : 
 " Fearful thought, that for forty, fifty, sixty years, a man 
 may seem to be laboring for the glory of God and the salva- 
 tion of his brethren, and in all these years God may not find 
 one which has been completely and sincerely given to Him ! 
 To think that dying, a man may find himself rejected at the 
 day of judgment as an unfaithful servant ! How is it now 
 with him 1 Has God presented this fearful account to him ? 
 He rests, — men have written here. What do they know 
 
 of it r 
 
 Then, returning to the first reflections which had been 
 awakened by the mortal remains of Bossuet, he exclaimed : 
 
 " He who said so eloquently, ' Come, see all that remains 
 of so much greatness and so much glory,' he has now been for 
 nearly sixty years outside of that dread portal whose terrors 
 he described. It is he who is now ' that nameless something 
 for which men have no designation in any language.' O ! my 
 God, however eloquent may haye been the voices in this world 
 which have spoken of eternity, how much more eloquent are 
 they when they become silent ! What a pulpit is the tomb ! 
 What an orator is death ! And he, he is there — there, under- 
 neath my feet. If I should raise this stone, I should see him." 
 
 III. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 " You would not see him," said a voice. 
 
 It was not that of the beggar ; but its accent was so similar, 
 that the priest, who was moreover startled, was deceived. 
 
 " Thou here V he said, turning quickly. But immediately 
 he resumed, " Pardon me ; I thought — " 
 
 3* 
 
go THE PRIEST AND 
 
 He who interrupted him was also in travelling costume, 
 large hat, dusty gaiters and shoes, and black cloak. His com- 
 plexion, deeply embrowned, denoted that he was an inhabitant 
 of the country ; but his bearing was easy and noble. Although 
 he appeared not more than forty years of age, his hair was 
 nearly white. 
 
 " I ought to ask your pardon," he said ; " I have broken in 
 upon your meditations." 
 
 ' I was speaking al nost aloud," said the priest ; " you heard 
 mef 
 
 " A few words — the last. I comprehended that you believe 
 yourself at the tomb of the former bishop of Meaux, and — " 
 
 " Am I not ■? And this epitaph ?" 
 
 " It only remained twenty years on the tomb of Bossuet. 
 The cardinal de Bissy had the front of the high altar repaired 
 if! 1724. The monumental stones were taken away, and put 
 here. The body of Bossuet then remained — " 
 
 " Where ? You know the spot V 
 
 " There, before the first step — " 
 
 " There, you say 1 At the very spot where I kneeled just 
 
 now 
 
 I" 
 
 He hastened thither. Nothing was there to indicate a tomb; 
 squares of white and green marble covered the whole space 
 comprised between the altar and the grating of the choir. 
 
 "Thus it is all through lifu," said the new comer. "We 
 pass by the truth without knowng it, and go to pay homage 
 tt> that which has only its appearance." 
 
 " \ es," added the priest ; " and, unfortunately, that appear- 
 ance often possesses a charm over which it is difficult for truth 
 itself to triumph. In fact., I am almost sorry that you have 
 undeceived me. Bossuet has said to me there, where he 
 is not, all that he had to say. It is immaterial to me that 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 31 
 
 he is in reality here ; for my imagination and heart he is still 
 there." 
 
 And he went to give a last look at the epitaph. The 
 unknown followed him. 
 
 "After all," said the latter, "if the spirit of Bossuet be any- 
 where in this church, it is neither here, nor yet over there. 
 You know that our spirits, according to the poets, most will- 
 ingly haunt those places which were during life our favorites. 
 If Bossuet should become visible, see where I think he would 
 appear to us." 
 
 And he pointed to the pulpit, which was visible iu the 
 distance between the columns and the nave. 
 
 The priest shook his head. 
 
 " You think so ?" he said. " I think he would be very ill 
 satisfied to find himself there, unless God gave him the power 
 to drive out of it the preachers of the day, or to inspire them 
 with a very different eloquence." 
 
 " It is precisely what I thought just now, as I passed this 
 pulpit," said the unknown. " I know but little of the preachers 
 of the day, but it appears that there are some of them whom 
 Bossuet would scarcely own as his disciples. Affectation, 
 tinsel, many words and few ideas, abundance of philosophy, 
 and scarcely any Christianity — " 
 
 " Scarcely any 1 Say rather none — " 
 
 " Willingly ; but I did not venture — ' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Your dress — " 
 
 "My dress is a livery which cannot prevent my censuring 
 those who degrade it." 
 
 " Your frankness does you credit, and you must have out 
 too many occasions for exercising it. Yes, as you say, evan- 
 gelical traditions have become more and more extinct among 
 
32 THE PRIES! AND 
 
 your preachers. You have, it is said, but one who has escaped 
 the decline, and who may still be cited as a truly Christian 
 orator. 1 have heard him once, and — " 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 If the church had not been so dark, he to whom this question 
 was addressed would have seen that the eyes of the priest 
 sparliled with a sudden light ; a slight color tinged his cheek, 
 and his hand trembled. 
 
 " Who is it V he repeated. 
 
 " Father — wait — oh. Father Bridaine." 
 
 " Ah ! Father Bridaine — yes, I believe I have heard him." 
 
 " What did you think of him f 
 
 " I like your fancy," said the priest, half absently, and as if 
 wishing to change the subject ; " yes, the shade of Bossuet in 
 this pulpit. I believe, in fact, that if I were to remain here 
 an hour or two alone, in the evening, — as now, — among these 
 tombs, enveloped in the solemn twilight, my imagination, the 
 shadows — " 
 
 "Well, what r 
 
 " Do not laugh, I believe I should finish by seeing him. I 
 should see him slowly advance. He would glide there, past 
 the columns. No noise, — on the contrary, he would seem to 
 bring silence with him, as the night now brings it to us. Be- 
 hind him, before him, the shadows would darken, but I should 
 still see him. At least I should see naught but him. He would 
 mount into the pulpit — ^ha ! good God !" 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "There!— see!" 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 33 
 
 IV. 
 
 REHEARSAL OF A SERMON. 
 
 The priest stood amazed and motionless, his arm still ex- 
 tended in the direction of the pulpit. The shades of night 
 had completely enveloped the church. The last faint rays of 
 twilight scarcely penetrated through the stained glass win- 
 dows. A lamp burned before the altar, and its beams, until 
 then unnoticed, gradually took possession of all the space 
 abandoned by the light of day. By this uncertain gleam, a 
 human form could be perceived ascending the steps of the 
 pulpit. As far as could be judged, it was that of a man of tall 
 stature. His hair was white, and the lamp glancing on his 
 face revealed its pallor. 
 
 Had the priest really fancied that he saw him whom his im- 
 agination had just conjured up ? Perhaps in the first moment 
 he would have been himself somewhat puzzled to explain what 
 he felt. At the stifled exclamation which had escaped him, 
 the shade had appeared to pause, with one foot upon the first 
 step. Then the rustling of his robes and the sound of his step 
 were again heard, so that by the time he had ascended into the 
 pulpit, there was no doubt that if he were a phantom, it was 
 a phantom of flesh and blood. But still it was strange. What 
 was the object of this priest, (for he wore bands,) at this hour, 
 and in the dark ? 
 
 He sat down, coughed, and blew his nose, making, however, 
 as little noise as possible. He was evidently under the dominion 
 of that vague feeling, which seizes upon one in the presence of 
 the dead, and which makes one speak softly, even in addressing 
 a deaf man. This undefined feeling had been experienced by 
 our two speakers themselves, and it was doubtless on this ao- 
 
34 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 count that the mysterious priest had not heard them speaking. 
 At length he rose. 
 
 " Ah !" said our two invisible hearers at the same moment, 
 " a sermon, it seems." 
 
 The orator made a large sign of the cross. Then another, 
 and another. And each time he slightly modified his gesture. 
 
 " What is he doing f said the priest. 
 
 " Do you not perceive ?" replied the unknown. 
 
 " No. Ah ! yes, — I have it. I — I am afraid I understand it." 
 
 " Alas, yes. It is one of those very preachers of whom you 
 have been speaking. He has come to rehearse his part." 
 
 The signs of the cross still continued. 
 
 " Miserable court monkey !" muttered the priest. " Will 
 he ever come to an end 1 Why does he not rather go into the 
 boudoir of a marquise ? He would at least find a glass there 
 in which to see himself. Ah ! at last — " 
 
 The silent orator was at length satisfied with himself. His 
 last sign of the cross was of unimpeachable elegance. 
 
 Then he repeated it, saying ; " In nomine Patris, et Filii, et 
 Spiritus sancti. Amen." 
 
 His voice was that of a man thirty or thirty-five years of 
 age, agreeable, but affected. Art had destroyed nature, and the 
 speaker was evidently one of those who thmk it impossible too 
 entirely to destroy it. 
 
 Then followed his text : " Nildl aliud inter vos scire volui, 
 nisi Chris/um, et Christum criiei/i.rum." Then, according to 
 custom, the translation: ^T^or / determined to know nothing 
 among you, save Jesus Christ and him crucified." 
 
 And all this in the tone in whieh he would have recited a 
 madrigal of Chaulieu, or Bernis, or La Fare, or — but it would 
 take too long to mention all the versifiers who were then call- 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 35 
 
 ed poets, and by whose verses the orator had undoubtedly 
 been far more nourished than by the prose of St. Paul. 
 
 In the meantime, the priest and his companion began to dis- 
 tinguish his face more plainly. Whether their eyes had be 
 come more accustomed to the semi-obscurity, or their imagi 
 nations, calmer, allowed them to see better, he had now no- 
 thing ghastly about him. A rosy hue had succeeded the 
 cadaverous paleness ; his hair was still white, but with powder. 
 The lugubrious cloak had turned into an elegant cassock, be- 
 neath which, a well-proportioned embonpoint was visible. This 
 was then doubtless one of those " stout fellows," with ten 
 thousand crowns of income, as La Bruyere says, in describing 
 the court abbes. 
 
 " Sire," he said. 
 
 Another discovery. It was a sermon to be preached be- 
 fore the king. 
 
 " Sire," he repeated. 
 
 And after having tried every possible tone, he appeared at 
 length to have found one which suited him. It was a skilful 
 enough mingling of grace and power, of boldness and hu- 
 mility. 
 
 " Sire," he continued, " thus expressed himself a great apos- 
 tle ; he whom Providence selected to spread abroad the virtues 
 and teachings of the legislator of Christians.'' 
 
 " There we have it," muttered the priest. " Cheat apostle, — 
 Providence, — the legislator of Christians.'''' 
 
 " What would you have V said the other. " The encyclo- 
 pedia has had a hand in this. Eeligion must turn philosopher, 
 if she wishes to be endured. Listead of God, — Providence. It 
 is more vague, each one interprets it in the manner which best 
 suits him. Instead of Jesus Christ, — the Legislator of Christians. 
 Id order, apparently, not too much to frighten those who would 
 
36 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 make of him only a doctor, like any other teacher. And then 
 Apostle, — great Apostle, — why how could they say plain Peter 
 or Paul, John or James, and that too, before the court 1" 
 
 " And to think," added the priest, " that it is thus through- 
 out all France !" 
 
 The unknown smiled. 
 
 " The whole of France ! I know one comer where I wai 
 rant you it never has been, and never will be thus." 
 
 " And this corner is — ?" 
 
 " The— 2)Mer<." 
 
 "You say the—" 
 
 But the orator was going on, and the priest, without await 
 ing a clearer answer, had again begun to listen. After a to) 
 erably well-arranged delineation of the labor and suffering of 
 the apostle, he said, " what then was the secret of his power ? 
 From whence did he draw so much perseverance and courage ?" 
 
 But, instead of answering, with the apostle himself, " In his 
 faith,'' which in 1760 would have betrayed his profession a 
 mile off, the orator replied, " In his devotion to his master," 
 and then followed a long tirade upon devotion in general, upon 
 the power which it gives, and the courage which it inspires. 
 This passage was, moreover, full of talent, and did not want 
 life ; it would have figured perfectly well as accessory, in a 
 serious and Christian discourse. Unhappily, the accessory took 
 its place as principal ; the orator had evidently made up hia 
 mind to go no farther. 
 
 Was the learned abbe going at least to confine himself to 
 all that was purest in the exclusively human devotedness to 
 which he had reduced that of Paul ? 
 
 It seemed, at one time, as if he were about to enter upon tho 
 religious view of the subject. 
 
 " And who," he commenced, " who is this master to whom 
 
THE nUGUENOT. 37 
 
 the apostle is proud of having given himself up entirely ? ' I 
 will know none other than Christ,' he says. What Christ ? 
 Christ glorified, without doubt — Christ forever seated on the 
 right hand of God his Father, — no ! Christ in His abase- 
 ment — Christ in His humiliation — Christ condemned — Christ 
 crucified — " 
 
 " Good, abb6, good !" But He had risen, only to fall 
 fiirther. 
 
 It was not without risk that a man preached before the 
 king in France ; and where a Bossuet, a Bourdaloue, a Masil- 
 lon, had so often and so sadly failed, it was hardly to be 
 expected that an abbe of the court could, in 1760, refrain from 
 burning some incense upon the altar of the same idol. 
 
 Accordingly, the humiliation of Christ was introduced, only 
 in order to bring in a compliment to the king. Must there 
 not be one, according to custom, at the close of the exordium ? 
 
 " This," he then added, " is assuredly a sort of devotion with 
 which your majesty will never inspire any one. Under what- 
 ever aspect your subjects contemplate you, they can perceive 
 naught save glory and greatness — greatness of birth, greatness 
 of undertakings, greatness in your virtues, greatness in all 
 that comes from you ! Ah ! how easy is devotion to such a 
 master ! How little merit there is in serving you ! But 
 devotedness in misfortune — devotedness, in spite of humilia-- 
 tions and outrages — ^this it is which is difficult and truly 
 beautiful ; this it is which we will demand from God, through 
 the intercession of Mary — " 
 
 " Mary ! Good ! Mary /" murmured the priest again. 
 " Formerly, we said the Virgin, the holy Virgin. But now, 
 bah ! they would laugh at it. Mary, — it is in better taste. 
 What do you think ?" 
 
 " I object to it, — ^but Mary., or the Virgin, it does not make 
 
 4 
 
38 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 much difference to me. As for myself, I should say nehhei 
 the one nor the other." 
 
 " What would you say, then f asked the priest. 
 
 He did not reply, but began once more to listen. 
 
 The priest began to think that there was something quite 
 strange about his companion : he had wondered several times 
 with whom he was speaking. Was he a stranger, as his tra- 
 velling costume seemed to indicate ? But the details which 
 he had given respecting Bossuet's place of burial, seemed more 
 likely to come from a citizen of Meaux. Was it one of the 
 infidels of the day ? He appeared, in fact, to have but little 
 devotion to the Virgin ; but he had spoken of Christianity and 
 Christ, just as the priest would have wished all preachers to 
 do. And that corner of France, in which he had affirmed that 
 it was always spoken of in this manner ? And that mysterious 
 name, which his companion had not seized, but which had not 
 resembled that of any province 1 ■ The unknown, on his side, 
 began to perceive the uncertainty into which his companion 
 was throwTi. 
 
 " Shall we go ?" he said. " Tlie exordium is finished ; the 
 sermon will be perhaps very long. You hear, moreover, that 
 it is a constant repetition. Now he has taken up his devoted- 
 ness in detail. Devotcdness among the ancients — devotedness 
 among the moderns — d^'votedness among savages — everything 
 is there, excepting Cliristian devotedness." 
 
 " Let us go, with all my heart," said the priest. " I have 
 heard only too much." 
 
 " We must try not to let him either see or hear us. We 
 will take the lower aisle — this way — in the shadow, Ah ! he 
 stops ! Can he have heard US'?" 
 
 " He has lost his thread, I believe." 
 
 " So he has. Listen how he runs after his phrase. He has 
 
THE HUGUENOT. SU 
 
 lost one word. Impossible ! Ah ! it seems he must abso- 
 lutely have this word — " 
 
 "He deserves that the same thing should happen to him 
 before the king." 
 
 " This is the consequence of mechanically learning by heart : 
 forget one word, and all is lost." 
 
 " But, Monsieur," said the priest, " one would suppose that 
 you were of the profession — " 
 
 " I ? Ah ! he is coming down from the pulpit. Where is 
 he going now V 
 
 " To the lamp : he is looking into his manuscrip*- He has 
 found his word, and is gomg back again. Let us pais while 
 he turns away." 
 
 They reached the end of the aisle, but there was no getting 
 out ; the three doors were closed. 
 
 " We might have thought of that," said the priest. " Of 
 course, he would take measures not to be interrupted. I 
 remember now to have seen a beadle in the distance, showing 
 out the women. What is to be done 1" 
 
 " We must wait. He will, of course, open the doors, or 
 have them opened for him." 
 
 " He is becoming animated. Let us go back. The end 
 will probably be curious." 
 
 The end had not yet come. He was just then citing Orestes 
 and Pylades. At length the peroration commenced. After 
 listening some moments, the priest exclaimed : 
 
 " What impiety !" 
 
 But the orator, warming with his subject, did not hear. 
 
 "I would finish," he said, "by some instance, which would 
 bring vividly before your eyes all that I have just laid before 
 you. I would take this instance from a king, or those around 
 him, — ^in this very place, if possible. But I have already said, 
 
40 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 sire, ihat devotion is of no merit here, it is so easy, so sweet. 
 If I were to name all those who are heart and soul yours, I 
 should have but to name all those who hear me — all this 
 court — all your subjects. Nevertheless, in the midst of these 
 torrents of devotion which ascend towards you from every 
 direction, may I not be permitted to point out one devotion, 
 which, if not more entire, is at least more special, more con- 
 stant, dearer to your heart ? If devotedness in misfortune be 
 a thing necessarily unknown, in relation to a prince surrounded 
 with glory, and happy in the happiness which he bestows, yet 
 royalty has nevertheless its cares, its vexations, its fatigues. 
 Happy, then, happy the hand which is permitted to alleviate 
 them ! Happy the long friendship—" 
 
 It was here that the priest exclaimed, " What impiety !" 
 
 ESCAPE FROM IMPRISONMENT. 
 
 There was, in fact, no room for a mistake. It was to the 
 friendship of Madame de Pompadour that the orator dared to 
 allude. 
 
 As long as this liaison had been manifestly an immoral one, 
 the pulpit of Versailles had been contented to remain, as in 
 the time of Louis XIV., silent and impassible ; but since the 
 king's mistress, now in her fortieth year, had taken it into her 
 head to call herself his friend, the most scrupulous had gladly 
 seized upon this aspect of the matter. It was well known that 
 the marquise, in order to prolong the debasing influence which 
 she no longer hoped to retain by her own fascinations, had 
 finished by becoming caierer for the ignoble pleasures of the 
 Parc-aux-Cerfs. But appearances were saved ; and what more 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 41 
 
 was necessary 1 What business had any one to ask what 
 passed beneath the chaste name of friendship ? 
 
 Our preacher of Meaux had accordingly only followed the 
 example of many others, and, as is frequently enough the case, 
 had gone farther than any of his predecessors. 
 
 It may be doubted, moreover, whether an arrangement of 
 this sort was altogether to the lilting of the favorite. " Lonff 
 friendship," in particular, risked being ill received. Did it 
 not force people to remember that the intimacy commenced 
 some fifteen years back, and the friendship only three or four ? 
 Did it not bestow upon her, besides, that unwelcome certificate 
 of forty years, which no woman is ever in haste to receive ? 
 But the abbe, in his zeal, did not look so closely into the mat- 
 ter. Who has tact enough never to be the bear in the fable ? 
 
 He had just finished. A triumphant tirade had closed the 
 peroration. " I am overwhelmed !" exclaimed the priest. 
 " No ! this abominable sermon shall never be preached." 
 
 "How—" 
 
 " It shall not be, I tell you. I would go, rather — ^yes, I 
 would go to the king — " 
 
 " But what is all this 1 He is beginning again." 
 
 And, in fact, he re-commenced ; but this time he spoke very 
 rapidly, and without gestures, as if reciting it for the last time, 
 in order to be quite certain of it. 
 
 " This time," said the priest, " I cannot bear it." 
 
 " It must be put an end to. Let us show ourselves." 
 
 " Come. But no — go, go alone — I could not contain 
 myself." 
 
 " And if I restrain myself, believe me, it is not without 
 difficulty." 
 
 He advanced ; and as the orator paused in amazement, he 
 
 4* 
 
42 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 '■ Monsieur, there are persons here who have just heard 
 your sermon — " 
 
 " Have heard my sermon !" 
 
 " And -who desire to leave the church ; not that they are 
 not charmed." 
 
 Tlie preacher bowed. 
 
 "Monsieur, you overwhelm me. May I know by what 
 happy accident — " 
 
 " I really believe," said the priest, in a whisper, " that he 
 thinks we are enchanted. Let him think so. I know where 
 to find him again." 
 
 " Wo were at the further extremity of the church, and the 
 door was then closed." 
 
 " It was by my orders. Pardon my having caused you this 
 hour of imprisonment and fatigue." 
 
 This last word required a compliment. He stopped, as if 
 he expected one ; but his auditors were not the people to carry 
 a pleasantry any further. 
 
 " You wish to go out V he said, in a much less polite man- 
 ner than before. "Knock at this little door behind you. A 
 beadle is waiting outside to open it for me." 
 
 They went out : the beadle re-closed the door, and took his 
 departure. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE PRIEST AND THE HUGUENOT. 
 
 In the meantime, the priest, occupied by these incidents, had 
 forgotten the man in the porch. 
 
 After proceeding several steps, he remembered him ; and 
 although it appeared improbable that the beggar still awaited 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 43 
 
 him, he said to his companion, " Excuse me, I have business 
 in this direction. I thank you much for your company." 
 
 " Adieu, Monsieur," said the other. " I shall remember 
 this evening, and the tomb of Bossuet." 
 
 " And I shall not forget him who showed it to me. Shall 
 we meet again?" 
 
 " I am on my way to Paris." 
 
 " And I also. Where shall you lodge V 
 
 " At ^but no ; let us leave to God the care of bringing 
 
 us together again, if He wills it." 
 
 " Be it so ; I accept the rendez-vous. It will be perhaps 
 more certain than those agreed upon beforehand. One word : 
 are you a citizen of Meaux V 
 
 « No." 
 
 " From Paris, then 1" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " From what province, then V 
 
 The unknown appeared to hesitate. " From none," he replied. 
 
 " You are not French f 
 
 " I am, — and I am not." 
 
 " In God's name, I ask from whence you come f 
 
 " From — ^the — Desert." 
 
 The priest at length understood. He involuntarily let go 
 the hand of the unknown, but this he seemed to repent : he 
 took it again, and pressed it, but without adding a word. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. 
 
 His beggar awaited him, still seated in the same place. 
 " At last," he said, rising ; " your devotions are very 
 lengthy." 
 
44 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 And with the same air with which he had asked alms, he 
 advanced towards the priest, when the latter perceived him 
 suddenly turn pale, stagger, and at length fall upon his knees, 
 his arms extended towards the middle of the street 
 
 -' Judas !" said a voice. 
 
 But the beggar, rising, precipitated himself in the direction 
 of the church. His hands convulsively clasped above his head, 
 he pressed himself, sobbing, against the doorway. He seemed 
 desirous of hiding himself in the thickness of the wall, to 
 escape some terrible \ision. 
 
 The priest approached him. 
 
 " What ails thee ? What is it ? He is gone — " 
 
 '' I do not wish to see him, — I do not wish — " 
 
 " I tell thee, he is gone." 
 
 " He is gone ?" said the man, suspiciously. And when he 
 had assured himself, he said, " So you knew me, when you told 
 me to wait for you ! He had seen me — had told you who I 
 am!" 
 
 " He, — he ! Of whom do you speak V 
 
 "Of/jm— Eabaut." 
 
 " It is Rahaut? Rubaut oi'the Cevennes !" 
 
 " Yes, Uabaut of the Desert — Rabaut, the minister. You 
 iid not know him, then ?" 
 
 " I had just left him, but I did not know his name. How 
 he chanced to be behind me, I cannot now imagine." 
 
 Upon leaving the priest, Rabaut — ^for it was he, had, not 
 without surprise, seen him direct his steps towards this door 
 which he knew to be closed. A man who has a price set upon 
 his head, has a right to be distrustful. He followed him. 
 
 " You did not know him !" cried the beggar. " And I have 
 named him ! and to a priest ! good God ! was I fated to be 
 tray him again 1" 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 45 
 
 « Again ?" 
 
 " Did you not heai what he said V 
 
 " He said—' Judas !' " 
 
 " Aid 7—1 am that Judas !" 
 
 " Listen. On the word of a priest — " 
 
 The beggar shook his head. 
 
 " On the word of a man then, — will that content thee '' On 
 the word of a man, I swear that I will not betray him. But 
 thou shall relate to me thy history. Where dost thou live 1" 
 
 "I?— nowhere." 
 
 " Where wouldst thou have passed the night ?" 
 
 " There, upon the steps." 
 
 " Thou shalt come with me." 
 
 The beggar looked at him fixedly. 
 
 " I — with a priest 1 Since you have guessed so well, that 
 I am not what I seemed to be, — ^have you not also guessed 
 that I have a horror of them V 
 
 « All V 
 
 " All— save one." 
 
 " Come, — I will try to make thee say' — ' save two,'' — come, 
 come." 
 
 And the beggar allowed himself to be persuaded. They 
 arrived at a little tavern, in & faubourg of Meaux. 
 
 " Has my horse been cared for V asked the priest j " and 
 where has my valise been placed ?" 
 
 " Up in your chamber, Monsieur." 
 
 " Show me there, and bring me up supper." 
 
 The supper came, but the beggar refused to seat himself 
 at the table. He took a piece of bread, and went to the othei 
 end of the room, where he ate it in silence. 
 
 " Still — ' save one f " usked the priest, with a smile. 
 
 « Still. 
 
46 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 But this Still was sompwhat constrained. The heart of 
 this man was evidently melting beneath the benevolent glance 
 of the old priest. The latter contained himself as much as he 
 could, in order that he might not seem to force a reconciliation 
 which was now certain. He continued his repast. At length, 
 after a somewhat protracted silence, he said : 
 
 " What is the name of this fortunate one ?" 
 
 " I shall never mention it, save to the other ; — if I find 
 another." 
 
 " Then tell me." 
 
 " You wish it ? Well, since I have eaten your bread ; it is 
 Father Bridaine." 
 
 The priest raised his head quickly, — "Ah !" he said, " Father 
 Bridaine ?" Then continuing his meal, he said in a low voice, 
 '• and yet I have never seen this man." 
 
 The beggar thought he was speaking of Father Bridaine. 
 " You have never seen him, you say 1 Nor I either. But it 
 seems to me that if I should see him — " 
 
 " Well ■?" 
 
 " I should recognize him." 
 
 " Dost thou think so 1" said the priest, with the sjime smile. 
 " Ah ! Well, I have finished my supper. Wilt thou confide in 
 me, — ^yes or no ?" 
 
 " There is a price set on my head, I tell you beforehand, as 
 on Paul Rabaut's. After that, keep my secret or not, as you 
 choose. It is of little consequence to me. Listen." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 47 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE CEVENOL's story. 
 
 And then the beggar commenced his history. 
 
 " I am one of those children of the desert,* of whom you 
 have made pariahs if not worse, for pariahs have at least the 
 right to exist, and this is denied us, — this right, f My father 
 was born in the midst of the sabres of your great Icing's 
 dragoons. My grandflither died upon the wheel ; his father 
 upon the walls of La Ecchelle, and we have in our family 
 Bible, by way of mark, an old piece of cloth stained with the 
 blood of one of our ancestors, assassinated at Nimes on Saint 
 Bartholomew's day. We spread this carefully, every evening, 
 Hpon the page which we were going to read, and we said, with 
 another martyr, in whose name we are persecuted, ' Father, 
 forgive them !' 
 
 " I will pass over my earlier years. We grow old very soon, 
 you see, when we grow up under the knife. I was seven or 
 eight years old, when, in 1745, broke out the increased perse- 
 cutions which gained us the laurels of Fontenoy. There was 
 no childhood for me. Nursed in the midst of dangers and. 
 alarms, we were men at twelve, — at thirty, almost old men, — 
 at forty, we had white hair, lilce him. 
 
 " I was not yet old, however, — I was twenty, but not one of 
 
 *It is known that this name generally designated the retired and 
 ■wild spots where the Protestants of the south of France went to hold 
 their religious services. Hence the common expressions ; " Churclies 
 of the Desert, Ministers of the Desert, Worship of the Desert." 
 
 ■j- The Edicts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. were based, as will be 
 seen farther on, upon the supposition that there existed no Protestants 
 in France. 
 
48 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 our mountaineers surpassed me in courage, in gra^-ity, in faith. 
 If a message were to be carried at the risk of a thousand 
 perils, I was ready. If consolation were needed, or encourage- 
 ment, then also was I ready. The elders summoned me to 
 their deliberations, and the ministers regarded me as one of 
 the pillars of that poor but glorious church, all built of the 
 bones of our martyrs. 
 
 "And I, — I loved this adventurous life. I, as well as others, 
 might have attempted to fly from a country thirsting for our 
 blood ; no one could have feared less than I, those galleys to 
 which the Protestants arrested in their flight were condemned. 
 But to fly ! Never once had I even dreamed of such a thing. 
 And do not think it was only idle vanity. I said to those, who 
 fled ; ' Go whither God summons you, He wills that I re- 
 main.' And I remained. In the midst of this oppressed prov- 
 ince, I had made for myself a sort of independence which 
 was even respected by the agents of tyranny. Twenty times 
 I might have been captured in the exercise of my religion ; 
 twenty times was I allowed to escape. 
 
 " There were plenty of others who made up for this. Like 
 Job seated in his habitation, and receiving in rapid succession, 
 information of all the blows which could wound his very soul, 
 I heard it said ; ' Such an one is taken ; he will be judged to- 
 morrow, executed the day after.' And this one was perhaps 
 a neighbor, or a friend of my childhood, with whom the day be- 
 fore, perhaps the same day, I had conversed and prayed. One 
 day my young sister was seized and shut up in a convent, and 
 not long after I learned that she had died of grief Another day 
 my brother was brought to me, wounded mortally. He had 
 been surprised while returning from one of our assemblies. 
 The soldier had fired at hazard, and the ball pierced his breast. 
 
 " Well, in the midst of this sea of troubles, I was calm. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 49 
 
 Peaceably seated on the unshaken rock of my belief, I heard 
 the waves of this bloody torrent roaring around me. What 
 matters it, I thought, if it leaves me now, I shall arrive none 
 the less surely, sooner or later, at that goal which the martyrs, 
 and those who deserved to be martyrs, attain. Often, in some 
 retired pass of our mountains, I took pleasure in erecting with 
 st(/nes, turf and wood, the antique altar of the patriarchs. I 
 perfumed it with thyme, I ascended it, and then, upon my 
 knees, with my hands raised to heaven, I offered myself up, 
 body and soul, to that God, whose voice I recognized in all the 
 sounds of nature, as well as in each throb of my heart. These 
 mountains, at such times, were no longer the Cevennes, — I had 
 overleapt time and space. In spirit 1 trod that land sanctified 
 by the footsteps of Abraham, of the prophets, of the Son of 
 God. O my mountains ! holy reveries beneath the ches- 
 nut trees of my home ! In these times of desolation you were 
 for me an Eden. And now — ^were I permitted to find myself 
 once more in your solitudes, — they would be no longer heaven 
 for me — ^but hell." 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE PARDONS OT THE CHURCH. 
 
 He ceased. His head fell upon his breast. His eyes were 
 swollen with tears which he could not shed. 
 
 " Courage, my son," said the priest. " Take heart ! Thou 
 repentest. Of what, I know not as yet, — ^but thou repentest. 
 It is enough. The church has pardons." 
 
 " The church !" he cried. "The church ! The pardons of the 
 church ! Is it with flames that you would refresh the damned? 
 It is this, — ^it is the church — ^it is her infamous pardons which 
 have ruined me." 
 
 C 
 
50 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Calm thyself." 
 
 " Her pardons ! Ah, — I thought that I had found a man,— 
 a (Christian. And afler all — it is but a priest." 
 
 He was already at the door. The priest retained him, say- 
 ing, " My poor friend, — thou dost not believe in the pardons 
 of the church*. They have ruined thee, thou sayest. They 
 have often been abused. None know it better than I. Come, 
 thou believest in the pardon of God 1" 
 
 " I believe in his punishments — for those who have made 
 me fall into the abyss — " 
 
 " Pardon them, my son. Hast thou not told me that iu 
 thy home the murderers of thy brother were prayed for V 
 
 " Ah ! ike]/ killed only the body ; these others — " 
 
 " Pardon them, I tell thee, and God will revive thy soul 
 also." 
 
 " Ah ! at last ! The Christian has returned, the priest gone ! 
 Let him not return, I beg." 
 
 The priest sighed. Could he deny, that in this century as 
 in others, there was but .too often an abyss between the Chris- 
 tian and the priest 1 
 
 " Sit down again," he said, " and continue." 
 
 X. 
 
 THE CEVENOl's STORY. 
 
 "Such, then, was my life," resumed the Cevenol. "So 
 many miseries suffered in common, could not fail to produce 
 among us an entire conformity of feelings and ideas; and yet 
 it seemed to me that few had attained that lofty point to which 
 God had raised the impulses of my soul. It was not that I 
 grew proud of this : on the contrary, I said to myself; txem 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 51 
 
 bling, ' Much has been given me, much will be required of 
 me.' And it ^Yas only in rising ever higher, by contemplation 
 and prayer, that I could strive to be grateful for the mercies 
 by which I felt myself overwhelmed. 
 
 " But if the generality of souls appeared to me my inferiors, 
 there were two, in whose presence I felt myself penetrated by 
 a divine and superior warmth. 
 
 " C>ne was his — Rabaut, the father of all of us ; the pastor 
 anc patriarch, at thirty years, of these destitute colonies. He 
 did not build altars of wood and stone, he did not bury 
 himself in the paountains, unless he had to go to some distant 
 cavern, to receive the last breath of some of our outlawed 
 brethren ; but the ideal of devotion, of which I went to dream 
 in our solitudes, was realized by him in our villages, within a 
 few paces of dragoons and executioners. God spake to me by 
 the sounds of the desert ; but God spake to others by his mouth. 
 
 " The other soul — ah ! where is it ? Has God recalled it to 
 Himself? I know not : I am not worthy to know« 
 
 " It was a woman, — and I loved her. I loved her as only 
 those can love who see each other in this world, but to hope 
 for a meeting in the next. With her I tasted, beforehand, all 
 the joys of this heavenly meeting ; and if, sometimes, when 
 persecution appeared to slacken, I dared to hope for the 
 moment when the most sacred of earthly relations might be 
 formed between us, it was she who taught me to keep my 
 eyes turned to'wards heaven. Never had the contemplation 
 of things divine raised me to such a height, that she had not 
 preceded me upon the summits of faith — that her hand wis 
 not extended, to aid me in rising still higher. In the mean- 
 time, the report of our happiness had reached the ears of our 
 tyrants. As I said, they neither wished to kill nor to take me, 
 although I was daily within their reach. But if some spared 
 
52 THEPRIESTAND 
 
 me out of respect, there were others who did so from policy. 
 A prisoner, or dead, I should not be useful to them in any 
 way, and my example would only serve to encourage my 
 brethren. Living, but converted^ who could better serve their 
 projects than myself? 
 
 "But to accomplish this conversion, from which such an 
 effect was anticipated, by any ordinary means, they felt to be 
 impossible. They determined, accordingly,, to aim a blow at 
 my very heart. Madeleine suddenly disappeared. Her 
 parents could not even ascertain in what convent she was 
 imprisoned. 
 
 " The blow was a terrible one, yet I remained unshaken. 1 
 did not even suspect that they intended her liberty to be pur- 
 chased by my apostasy. When, some two months afterwards, 
 the subject was cautiously touched upon to me, it was easy to 
 perceive, from my astonishment, that the idea had never 
 entered my head, so impossible a thing did my conversion 
 seem to me. I could not comprehend how any one could 
 have the folly to hope for it. 
 
 " Yes, I was invincible, and I would have remained so, in 
 spite of priests, soldiers, and tortures of mind and body ; all 
 these I could have defied ; but alas ! while life still beamed 
 from my eyes, a subtle poison was already instilling itself into 
 my very heart. 
 
 " While my enemies despaired of gaining anything from 
 me, save my contempt for themselves and their faith, who, 
 think you, had been their auxiliary ? He who was filling all 
 Europe with complaints against them, — the philosopher of 
 Fcrney, — Voltaire himself! 
 
 " Jesuits came to preach regularly in our villages. We 
 were forced to be present at their instructions, and I had fre- 
 quently i\a honor of receiving their severest animadversions. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 53 
 
 As they found me immovable, the colonel of one of the regi- 
 ments which occupied the country said to them ; ' You under- 
 stand nothing of the matter. Let me take this man in hand. 
 Without violence, without threats, I wUl convert him in three 
 months.' The proposal was accepted. What did they care 
 for the means? These are always sufficiently sanctified by 
 the end. 
 
 " The colonel pretended to take a liking to me. He spoke 
 of our stedfastness in terms almost of respect. He said he 
 thought it very absurd for the king to insist upon punishing it 
 as a crime; but it was none the less & folly, he added. Did 
 God care about being served in one way more than another ? 
 Were these doctrinal differences, for which we allowed our 
 selves to be murdered, so very important? 
 
 " I soon saw that I had to deal with an infidel. However, 
 he was no more so than the greater number of the officers who 
 were sent to preside over our sufferings. This will doubtless 
 one day, be one of the most hideous characteristics of this age, 
 that so many were found willing to act as persecutors, without 
 believing in a God. 
 
 " It was accordingly by means of infidelity that he intended 
 to try and lead me to what he called his religion ; that is to 
 say, his church, that shadowy something to which so many 
 Eomanists imagine they still belong, even though in reality, 
 every tie which bound them to it be broken. The interest 
 which he appeared to take in me alone prevented me from 
 expressing to him at once my horror of infidelity ; besides, I 
 pitied still more than I condemned him. His infidelity ap- 
 peared to me the natural consequence of a religion which 
 taught so many absurd things, and I became, in consequence, 
 only the more attached to that in which all that is believed is 
 distinctly founded upon divine instruction. 
 
54 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 "Very soon, he adopted the method of appearing full of 
 respect for all that I regarded as essential in Christianity. He 
 lent me boolcs which did not directly oppose any of these 
 doctrines, but which, passing them by, exalted morals at the 
 expense of doctrine, and the virtues of man at the expense of 
 the work of God. I grew accustomed, gradually, to set less 
 importance upon faith. I began vaguely to say to myself, 
 that after all, if such different doctrines could lead to the same 
 moral results, it was wrong to be too much concerned, either 
 in regard to what others, or what oneself believed. I had 
 never seen this pretended morality, independent of doctrine, 
 put into practice. I did not know what vices, what turpitudes 
 it could shelter. 
 
 " Thus the cuirass was broken ; or, rather, I had permitted 
 it to be taken off. Then he lent me bolder, more able works, 
 in which infidelity, disguised as simple doubt, treacherously 
 attaelced the very foundations of faith. A month before, I 
 should not have read two pages of these ; I should have 
 rejected them with horror. Now, I read, I devoured them ; 
 and I began to understand, almost to excuse, this odious word, 
 folly, which my seducer had used in speaking to me of our 
 martyrs. 
 
 " At last he came to the point. No more books, but abusive 
 pamphlets ; no more discussions, but sarcasms. For the first 
 time, the tombs of the old Camisards trembled, horror-stricken, 
 with the echoes of that infernal laugh which had resounded 
 from Ferney to Paris — from Paris to the remotest hamlets. 
 
 " Two persons, two only, could yet have saved me from this 
 lamentable fall ; he and she. But I had not seen him. So 
 strict a watch had been kept, that he could not have taken a 
 step in this part of the country without being captured. She — 
 ah ! I ought not to have needed to see her, in order to remain 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 55 
 
 iinder her blessed influence. I ought to have shuddered at the 
 very thought of disturbing the harmony in which our souls 
 had dwelt. I ought to have cried, ' Get thee behind me, 
 Satan !' But fanaticism and impiety had combined for my 
 perdition. Whilst the colonel brought me his books, Father 
 Charnay, director of the missions of Languedoo, brought me 
 news of Madeleine ; and this news, by a diabolical understand- 
 ing, was always just what was necessary to confirm me in my 
 impressions of the moment. When my old enthusiasm had 
 begun to cool, they told me that Madeleine, broken by soli- 
 tude, had begun to incline to a calmer piety. When I had 
 been seen actually ready to make light of my belief, she had 
 been represented to me as occupying herself only in good 
 works. When I had learned to laugh at what I had adored, 
 she was shown me — ^not as an infidel, — they would not have 
 dared, I would not have believed it, — but indifferent, almost 
 gay ; ready, if I set her the example, to open the doors of her 
 detested convent by apostatizing. They had often given her 
 news of me too, they said. At first, she had been deeply 
 grieved ; then simply surprised, but rather glad than sorry for 
 the change which was taking place in me. She saw in it an 
 opening for proceedings which would permit us to be united. 
 These proceedings, however, had never been openly proposed 
 to me. They waited, with cunning patience, until I should 
 meet them half way in that which they wished to impose upon 
 me. At length the colonel spoke to me of it, but lightly, 
 almost jestingly, as of a disagreeable step, which, with my new 
 ideas, I could scarcely any longer refuse to take. I yielded — 
 I signed — 1 was a Catholic." 
 
56 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE LETTER. FATHER BRIDAINb's SERMON. CONFESSION. 
 
 The Cevenol had proceeded thus far, when the host brought 
 in a letter, sealed with a large seal. " A chair was below," he 
 said, " and the porters awaited an answer." 
 
 The priest appeared much surprised : he read and re-read 
 the address. " It is undoubtedly for me," he said. " Ah ! the 
 archbishops' seal ! Who knew that I was here ?" 
 
 He read it, and then said, " Tell them that I will come after 
 a while. — I want the rest of thy story," he resumed, turning to 
 the Cevenol. " I am far more interested than thou thinkest." 
 
 " The end is still a long way off. They are waiting for 
 you." 
 
 " Let them wait. Keep the end for to-morrow, then ; but 
 come to Father Bridaine. Where, when, and how didst thou 
 know him V 
 
 " You know him also, then ?" 
 
 " Yes — but go on." 
 
 " I was a Catholic, and Madeleine (at least so I was assured,) 
 was about to become one. The news of my apostasy had 
 been received in the country by a long wail of sorrow. My 
 father had cursed me ; my poor mother had nearly died of 
 grief 
 
 " It was necessary now to perform, at least for appearance 
 sake, some of the public acts of my new religion ; it was par- 
 ticularly desired that I should confess. Now, for this I had an 
 inexpressible repugnance. Besides believing no more than I 
 had before in absolution given by a man, however sincere and 
 virtuous he might be, I had yet seen among the priests nothing 
 but that which tended to render them odious to me. Even 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 57 
 
 while bowing raj neck beneath their yoke, I could not lose the 
 recollection of their cruelty and treachery, and I had not ceased 
 to hate the authors of the persecutions, from whose influence I 
 had withdrawn myself by apostasy. 
 
 " It was at this time that I heard Father Bridaine spoken of. 
 They said he had never approved of the violence practised 
 against us : he desired no other arms than gentleness, per- 
 suasion, charity. The evil spoken of him by our Jesuits, 
 completed my conviction of the justice of these praises. * I 
 resolved to make my confession to him. He was preaching 
 at Nimes. I went to hear him — " 
 
 " Thou hast said," interrupted the priest, " that thou hadst 
 never seen him." 
 
 " And it is true. I did not see him. The crowd concealed 
 the pulpit from me, and I made no effort to approach. In 
 default of conscience, a remnant of shame made me shun all 
 eyes. If I did not consider myself as a traitor to God, I could 
 not at least help looking upon myself as a coward in the eyes 
 of men. 
 
 " I expected a controversial discourse. He preached none 
 such, and I learned that he rarely did. Faith, the sources of 
 faith, its enjoyments, these were on this occasion the principal 
 points of his discourse. But what a difference between the 
 faith of which he spoice, and that with which we had been tor- 
 tured in our villages, to the sound of drum and musket ! I 
 had believed in all that he represented to us as constituting 
 Christian faith, when I was a Protestant. And it was only in 
 
 * "The Jesuits of this place are a hard-headed set, who never speat 
 to the Protestants save of fines and imprisonment in this world, and 
 the devil and hell in the next. We have had infinite difiieulty in 
 preventing the good fathers from rebelling against our gentleness." — 
 Fenelon. Written from La Saintonge, in 1686. 
 
58 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 ceasing to believe thus, that I had decided to abjure. Where, 
 I said to myself, while listening to him, where, in the midst of 
 these broad and magnificent ideas of the redemption of Christ, 
 and salvation by his blood, where are the saints, the Virgin, 
 purgatory, indulgences, and all that was preached to us as in- 
 dispensable to believe, or indispensable to practise 1 He says 
 nothing of them, and yet the system is complete. No vacuum, 
 no place where these vain things which they tell us are essen- 
 tial, could reasonably figure even as accessories. 
 
 " I rejoiced ; I triumphed. It was the Huguenot which return- 
 ed ! Alas ! it was not the Christian. In vain I allowed my- 
 self to be delighted with such homage rendered to the doc 
 trines of the reformation ; I fell back upon myself the next 
 moment, and considered with horror the vacuum which infi- 
 delity had created in my soul. Ah ! if I have since endeavor- 
 ed to fill this vacuum, if God has permitted me to find again, 
 beneath the severe pressure of remorse, at least a portion of 
 my former piety, — it is to the impressions of this day, it is to 
 Father Bridainc that I owe it. 
 
 " It had been announced that after the sermon he would con- 
 fess all those who wished to employ his ministry. I waited 
 long for my turn ; it was night when I kneeled, after twenty 
 others, before the grating of the confessional. From the em- 
 barrassed manner in which I recited the Confiteor, he under- 
 stood with whom he had to deal. His questions put me at my 
 ease ; I finished by tolling him nearly all my history. When 
 I came (o the means which had been employed to bring about 
 my conversion, he made me repeat twice to him the shamefiil 
 stoiy. ' Poor lad,' he said in a low voice ; 'poor lad !' At 
 length he broke forth. ' The abominable wretches,' he said, 
 ' to make him an infidel in order to make him a Catholic ! 
 To kill his soul in order to gain it !' And he seemed ready 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 59 
 
 to burst from the confessional. His voice had been leard. 
 The people scattered about the church cast curious and terri- 
 fied glances at me ; they wondered, doubtless, who the horrible 
 sinner could be, who excited in him such indignation. ' My 
 poor friend,' he said at length, ' what can I do in this case for 
 you 1 It is not by an absolution, in which you do and cannot 
 believe, that I can restore peace to your conscience, and faith 
 to your soul. Will you take my blessing 1 The blessing 
 of an old man is said to do good. Receive it, — God will do 
 the reet.' 
 
 " I left him, — I went away all in tears, and — " 
 
 XII. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. THE ARREST. 
 
 " Enough now, enough, — " said the priest, who had appeared 
 deeply m.oved by the conclusion of the narrative. " Thy mem- 
 ory is faithful, — yes, it is indeed that which Father Bridaine 
 said to thee,— which he would say to thee, such as I know 
 him. But they are waiting for me. I shall not return this 
 evening, for I am going to lodge with — a friend, — ^I leave thee 
 my chamber. To-morrow. — " 
 
 And soon the heavy tread of the porters was heard beneath 
 the window, bearing him away. 
 
 Remaining alone, the beggar said ; — " A chamber ! a bed : 
 It is a long time since I have lost the habit of using them, — 
 and if it should be a trap ? If— but no. His manner is so 
 frank. Yes. And Father Charnay? And the Colonel'? 
 They appeared frank also — " 
 
 His eye fell accidentally upon the letter which the priest had 
 received, and which he had left upon the table. He looked at 
 
60 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 it with an absent air, then he took it, but mechanically. He 
 did not appear to dream of its power to teach him the name 
 of his protector. Besides, what difference did this name make 
 to him 1 
 
 At length he looked at the address. The letter fell from 
 his hands. 
 
 This priest whom he had so rudely addressed at the door of 
 the church, this priest to whom he had just related his history, 
 this priest who had been so curious to hear him speak of 
 Father Bridaine — 
 
 It was Father Bridaine. 
 
 "It was then himself!" murmured the Cevenol, astonished. 
 " It was himself! In fact — yes — it is so — " 
 
 And one by one, returned to his mind, all the little details 
 from which he might have been able to recognize him if he 
 had had but the beginning of a suspicion. 
 
 " When I mentioned his name, with what an air he started. 
 The second time, how he smiled. And what astonishment in 
 his eyes at the first words of my history ! How exactly it 
 was that of a man who makes an unexpected discovery ! 
 When I repeated to him his own words, how he seemed to re- 
 c6gnize them! And I — I did not recognize him! And yet in 
 default of memory, my heart should have spoken. Ah ! but 
 why also that odious dress 1 At any rate, I have gained my 
 wager. Except one, I said ; and he pretended to bring me to 
 say except two. I abide by the one." 
 
 " It is singular," he resumed, after a moment of silence. " I 
 feel ill at ease here. I told him that a price was set on my 
 head. He does not know why. He knows, perhaps. Let us 
 see. What does this bishop write him. I am presumptuous, — 
 but by what right should modesty be exacted from me ? Let 
 us see — " 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 61 
 
 He read : 
 
 " You, my reverend father, are not a man who can with im- 
 punity pass through a town without the risk of being recog- 
 nized. You have been recognized, and I am glad that the news 
 of it reached me ; for I hope you will do me the honor to ac- 
 cept a lodging at my house. Others, bolder than I, go so far 
 as to say, that we must not allow you to go away again with- 
 out paying a ransom. They say, and I have a great desire to 
 do the same, that you have never preached at Meaux, and that 
 you cculd have no reason for refusing us what you have grant- 
 ed to so many other towns. All that I fear, — and your incognito 
 confirms me in this idea, — is that you may have engagements 
 which call you elsewhere. I confine myself for the moment, 
 accordingly, to inviting you for this evening and to-night, as- 
 suring you, my reverend Father, of all my consideration. 
 
 " Louis, Bishop of Meaux. 
 
 " P. S. — At all events, I send my chair for you.'' 
 
 " This is very simple," thought the Cevenol, " and very 
 harmless. He evidently did not expect this letter. Besides, 
 would he have left it, if it had been connected with any con- 
 spiracy ? I am easy. But what is that ■?" 
 
 A noise was heard on the staircase. The door was flung 
 open with violence. Two soldiers precipitated themselves 
 upon him. 
 
 He made not the slightest resistance. The treason of the 
 priest, for he could not doubt it, crushed him, body and soul. 
 A t the moment of quitting the room, he turned his head again 
 tc wards the interior, and with a bitter smile, murnured ; " I 
 can no longer say except one." 
 
 6 
 
fi2 THE PBIBBT AND 
 
 XIII. 
 THB BISHOP OP MEAUX. 
 
 Louis de Namiers, bishop of Meaux, belonged to the then 
 numerous class of prelates who had never comprehended, nor 
 appeared to comprehend, what a Christian pastor is. 
 
 His conduct, it is true, had not been openly scandalous. 
 Public opinion no longer tolerated in ecclesiastics those bold 
 turpitudes once so common, and of which more than one pre- 
 late had preserved, even so late as the reign of Louis XTV., 
 the too ancient tradition. 
 
 Monsieur de Namiers had accordingly never transgressed 
 beyond certain limits. He had had mistresses, like any other, 
 but had not made it public ; he had incurred debts, but he had 
 paid them. The proximity of Versailles had enabled him tc 
 hang about the court, while still residing at Meaux. At Ver- 
 sailles as at Meaux, at Meaux as at Versailles, he had for a 
 long time lived in a dashing style : then, brought back by age 
 to less expensive tastes, he had easily gained a reputation for 
 simplicity and wisdom. In short, he squandered an enormous 
 amount in his youth ; and in his old age, he heaped together 
 in an equal degree. These two facts comprise his whole life. 
 
 At this time nearly eighty years of age, during the last 
 twenty years all his affections had been concentrated upon two 
 nephews — one a soldier, the other an abbe, according to the 
 invariable custom of noble families. To raise one to the 
 highest honors of the army, and to assure to the other, after 
 him, the bishopric of Meaux, were the only and unchangeable 
 objects of all his combinations and all his labors. He did not 
 appear to suspect the least in the world that this was not his 
 great business, or that he had been raised to the see of Bossuet 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 63 
 
 for any other purpose. He was, moreover, not ignorant of the 
 weakness which his illustrious predecessor also had displayed 
 towards a nephew, and was able, when necessary, to remind 
 those of it who were astonished at his solicitude for his own. 
 
 And, nevertheless, with these exceptions, he was a man of a 
 good deal of mind and tact. Few people, among the fortunate 
 of the age, perceived more clearly than he did the universal 
 decomposition of society, which was now drawing towards its 
 crisis. It was asserted, that among his intimates, no one could 
 criticise with better sense than he the abuses which were 
 destroying France. Was there question of reforming a single 
 one of these 1 The most crying evils had no better defender 
 than him. He did not attempt to justify them; he confined 
 himself to asking why the; present generation should 
 trouble itself more about them than any other. If they did 
 not exist, he thought, it would 'be wrong to create them ; since 
 they did exist, it would be quite as wrong not to profit by 
 them, if possible. It was the common mode of reasoning among 
 those of the privileged classes who had not absolutely repelled 
 the invasion of new ideas, and whose object was to belong to 
 their age, although without breaking with the preceding ones. 
 Thus, when the old Count of Canaples obtained a regiment for 
 a young cousin of eighteen,* to the prejudice of many older 
 officers, he declared his opinion to be, that nothing in his 
 eyes, could be more contrary to good order and justice. But 
 he hastens to add, that after having, as a citizen, spoken against 
 an abuse, one is not bound, on that account, to renounce the 
 advantages which it offers. The Duke de Saint-Simon, after 
 so many austere discourses, contrived to have raised from 
 three to twelve thousand livres his emoluments as governor 
 of the castle of Blaye, in which he never set foot. 
 
 * DUCLOS. 
 
64 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 Thus acted our bishop of Meaux. He was frightened, he 
 sides, and not without reason, at the thought of the endless 
 ovcrturnings which the least change might bring about. He 
 felt that it was impossible to move one stone, without being 
 led gradually, nay, perhaps suddenly, to demolish and re-build 
 the whole edifice. In the meantime, he made himself as com- 
 fortable as possible in the old building. Like Louis XV., he 
 said, " It will last as long as I do ;" which meant, in his mind, 
 '' as long as I and my nephews ;" for he would not have been 
 able to endure the idea of a revolution ruining all that he had 
 had so much trouble to build. 
 
 A great aristocrat in his notions, there was, nevertheless, no 
 meanness to which he did not willingly and without effort sub- 
 mit himself, as soon as circumstances appeared to him to exact 
 it. He considered it no more humiliating to bow before a 
 favorite or a minister, than to stoop in going through too low 
 a door. People had made for themselves, in this respect, a 
 sort of fatalism — a sad excuse for all degradation. Whoever 
 desired the end, must endure also the means. Did not Mariar- 
 Theresa, an empress, having need of Madame de Pompadour, 
 call her my cousin, in 17561* iVec«Mt7y justified every thing ; 
 and for our bishop there was no more imperative necessity 
 than to establish the greatness of his house. 
 
 Thus far, he had had but to congratulate himself upon the 
 success of his system. It was thus that he had obtained many 
 rich benefices under the Regency, and that, after becoming 
 bishop, he had succeeded in keeping them. It was through 
 Madame de Pompadour that he had had a regiment given to 
 his elder nephew ; it was through her, also, that he had quite 
 recently gained for the other the title of preacher to the king. 
 * At the period of the treaty of Versailles. 
 
THE HUGUENOT, 65 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE TOUNG MARQUIS. 
 
 When Father Bridaine arrived at the bishop's residence, he 
 was received with every honor. His talent and his zeal had 
 gained him a reputation which raised him to a level with the 
 bishops. It was well known, besides, that his wearing the 
 mitre depended upon himself alone. Benedict XIV. had 
 granted him the sole right of preaching where it seemed good 
 to him, without having to ask permission of the diocesan. 
 
 He had for a long time exercised a sort of itenerant bishopric 
 in France, of which all the bishops were glad to favor the exer- 
 cise. The Jesuits alone, as has been seen, were jealous of his 
 influence and success. 
 
 He had but little esteem for the bishop of Meaux. This 
 was one of the reasons why he had not intended to make any 
 stay in the city, and had meant to leave incognito. He 
 responded however with much politeness to the prelate's 
 officiousness ; but as soon as they had exchanged a few words 
 he perceived that his host had an extremely preoccupied air. 
 He could not understand, after so pressing an invitation, the 
 embarrassment which his arrival appeared to cause him. 
 
 "You will excuse me, my father," said the prelate at length; 
 " but you perceive that I am very uneasy. My nephew was 
 to be at home at nine o'clock : he had appointed this hour for 
 several persons to come. It is ten, and lie has not made his 
 appearance. Well, no news f he continued, addressing him- 
 self to a valet who entered. 
 
 " None, my lord : we have been everywhere. No one has 
 seen Monsieur I'Abbe." 
 
 6* 
 
66 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Holy Virgin !" exclaimed the bishop, clasping his hands. 
 Then recalling the valet, he said, in a low tone : 
 
 " Have you been also to — to her ?" 
 
 " Yes, my lord ; he is not there." 
 
 " Holy Virgm !" exclaimed the prelate again. 
 
 Bridaine had heard the her ; and as the abbe passed for 
 being very little of an abbe in his morals, he had concluded 
 from it — what was unhappily but too true of many of the 
 abbes of the time. At Meaux the thing was of public notoriety. 
 
 " Has not my lord also another nephew ?" asked the mis- 
 sionary. 
 
 " Yes — the colonel. Ah ! if I were obliged to trouble my- 
 self about his absences, I should not often close my eyes. 
 When he comes home before midnight, I am half inclined to 
 compliment him upon it. Ah, stay — here he is, I believe." 
 
 And, in fact, the jingling of spurs was heard in the ante- 
 chamber, accompanied by the roar of coarse laughter, by which 
 the young lords of the day announced their arrival, in their 
 moments oi mauvais ton. 
 
 " Parbleu, uncle !" he said, dashing into the saloon ; " here 
 is a pretty day's work, I think !" 
 
 But his uncle, a little confused, had hastened to meet him, 
 and made him a sign to be silent. Then, taking him by the 
 hand, and leading him to the missionary, ho said : 
 
 "Monsieur Bridaine, Monsieur the Marquis de Narniers, 
 my nephew." 
 
 Monsieur the marquis bowed, took off his hat, and threw it 
 from him. 
 
 " Enchanted, Monsieur. But only fancy, uncle, that — " 
 
 " Have you seen your brother V 
 
 " Ah ! parbleu ! But let me finish. Have I seen him ! 
 Most certainly I have seen him — most certainly — ha ! ha !" 
 
THE HUGUENOT. fi7 
 
 And still shouting with laughter, he threw himself hack in 
 the arm-chair into which he had thrown himself. 
 
 " You have seen him 1 Nothing had happened to him ?" 
 
 " Now come, do I loolt like a man whose brother has brolcer. 
 his neck, — or who has just sold him to some merchant, like 
 Joseph 1" 
 
 The poor bishop began to be horribly ill at ease. 
 
 " Henry," he said,—" this tone — " 
 
 " Ah ha ! scolding 1 The moment is well chosen. On my 
 honor ! Jacob getting angry when his Benjamin is brought 
 back to him !" 
 
 " Henry, — once more, — you see that I am not alone." 
 
 " My lord," said Bridaine rising, " have the goodness to let 
 me be shown the chamber which you have had the goodness 
 to destine for me." 
 
 " Monsieur, Monsieur," cried the Marquis, " sit down again, 
 I beg you. My uncle would say that it is I who have driven 
 you away." 
 
 " He would say what is true, Monsieur," replied the missionary. 
 
 The other rose, crimson with anger. He seemed ready to 
 rush upon the priest. 
 
 " Henry ! Henry ! are you mad 1" cried the bishop, quite 
 terrified. " Do you wish, wretched boy, to make me die of 
 shame ? I swear to you my father, that I have never seen him 
 thus, — ^never." 
 
 And in fact, his nephew did not always go so far ; but he 
 larely came home in the evening, without having the excite 
 ment of wine added more or less to his usual impetuosity. 
 
 " Come, — calm yourself," resumed the bishop, accustomed 
 to yield, and sure, besides, that it was the only way of coming 
 to an end. " Sit down, my father, sit down, — ^it is I who beg 
 you. Come then, Henry, you were saying — " 
 
68 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " I was saying — ^upon my word, I have forgotten what I was 
 saying. Ah ! — yes — it is this. Fancy then, that I was quietly 
 returning to supper with — you know — " 
 
 " Yes, — yes, — I know. Go on." 
 
 " What a family !" murmured the missionary. 
 
 " when, passing by your cathedral, I heard heavy blows 
 
 struck on the inside, against one of the doors. ' Oh ho !' I said 
 to myself. ' some devotee who has gone to sleep over his pater- 
 nosters. He is caught ; it is good for him.' I approached. 
 ' Hey ! my friend,' I cried, ' are you going to wake the dead. 
 The door is not opened any more to-night.' 
 
 " ' What, is it thou !' said a voice. ' Thou, — thou, — ' I asked, — 
 'who is it that calls me thouP 'Why it is I, — I.' At the first 
 moment I nearly dropped with surprise. You do not guess, 
 my very dear uncle ? It was Monsieur the abbe, your nephew, 
 — 3'our preacher to the king." 
 
 " My nephew in the cathedral. At ten o'clock at night !" 
 cried the bishop, turning pale, for he knew the abbe too well 
 not to fear that this adventure would serve to put him on the 
 trace of some new scandal. 
 
 " Yes," continued the Colonel, " it was he. What he was 
 doing there, I do not know ; he would not tell me. One thing 
 perfectly certain is, that if he did fall asleep in some cor- 
 ner, it was not while saying his prayers. And yet when he 
 saw me laugh, as I asked him if he were alone, he swore to 
 me, swore very seriously, that my charitable suppositions 
 were false." 
 
 " He swore this to you V 
 
 " Yes. You are going to tell me that that is no reason for 
 believing him. True. But I saw from his manner, that he 
 was telling the truth." 
 
 " God be praised !" said the prelate. 
 
THE fiUGUENOT. 69 
 
 " Very good. But you do not ask me how I got him out. 
 A little heroically, I tell you. I ran to the baker's on the cor- 
 ner, whose shop was luckily still open. I wmed myself — " 
 
 " With a log •?" 
 
 " Fie ! that would be a pretty weapon for a gentleman ! A 
 log ! An axe, uncle, an axe. And still, it took me I do not 
 know how long, to break the look of that cursed door.'' 
 
 "Holy Virgin! An axe! The door of my cathedral! 
 ' Why there is enough there to bring on a terrible law-suit !" 
 
 " To be tried before you, luckily. And even if it should be 
 before somebody else, well ! — a great affair, truly ! A brother 
 rescuing his brother ! Why that is fine, very fine ; it is an- 
 tique. And as to the broken door, an old habit, in faith. It 
 was from the Camisards that I learned to use the axe. Are 
 there then no indulgences, as in the good old time, for those who 
 have warred against the heretics ? Ah, ha ! apropos of Cami- 
 sards, — you were there too. Father Bridaine, in these cursed 
 Cevennes. How was it that I did not remember that when I 
 heard your name ? We have served together, uncle, served 
 together." 
 
 " Not the same master," said Bridaine. 
 
 " Yes, I understand. You God, and I the king. The fact 
 is, that the king would do just as well to leave to God, and 
 God's people, the care of this sort of affair, for it is an abomi- 
 nable bore to stay in those mountains. So, do you know 
 what I once did to amuse myself there % I made a convert — • 
 Oh, a real convert. Not with the sword. No, a real convert, by 
 reasoning, upon my honor ; — and discussions, and books, 
 books such as you have perhaps never read nor seen. Ask my 
 unc e." 
 
 " Henry, not a woid more of this abominable affair, I for- 
 bid it." 
 
70 THE PEDST AND 
 
 " Then you don't wish me to tell you my other adventure 
 this evening ?" 
 
 " There is another adventure ?" 
 
 " Parbleu, — I should not have cried out, ' a good day's 
 work !' for only one !" 
 
 " Let us hear it." 
 
 " You remember, do you not, this famous convert, my Cev- 
 enol, my assassin of Toulouse ? Well, he is at Meaux ; he is 
 under look and key." 
 
 " This man is taken ?" said Bridaine eagerly. 
 
 " Taken ; as taken as it is possible for any one to be." 
 
 " Henry," said the bishop, " if it is you who have had him 
 taken, you were wrong, very wrong." 
 
 " Why ? Cannot Jie be hung here as well as anywhere else 1" 
 
 " You are determined he shall be hung ? Come 1 Another 
 taste which I did not know that you possessed." 
 
 " I ■? Not at all. The fact is, it did not even occur to me, 
 that the thing might have consequences for him, so — disa^ 
 greeable. I recognized him this afternoon, disguised as a 
 beggar, and do you know where ? At the door of the cathe- 
 dral. I thought it comical that he should thus have come and 
 put himself in the jaws of the wolf, and so I said a few words 
 to the authorities. They watched him, and followed him, and 
 at length caught him at an inn, where he had gone accompan- 
 ied by a priest, no oflTence to you.'' 
 
 " And this priest f 
 
 " Had just gone out. They will have him when he comes 
 back, if he does come back ; for he may be some vagabond 
 also. And there is the whole s»ry. I should have done bet- 
 ter perhaps to have let then, alone. Bah! what's done is 
 done." 
 
 Bridaine had from the first, as may well be thought, recog- 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 71 
 
 ized the Colonel and his victim. At first, the bold marquis 
 ad inspired him with contempt only ; but now, he shuddered 
 t the sight of a man who had in cold blood delivered another 
 3 the hangman, because, he said, the thing had appeared to 
 im comical. The spectacle of an implacable hatred would 
 ave been less afflicting than this atrocious heartlessness. But 
 ontempt for human life, was retained in a greater degree than 
 aost are aware of, in the descendants of the ancient braves, 
 ley began, like everybody, by talking sense and nonsense in 
 egard to the dignity of man ; but man in their eyes, was the 
 lobleman. When a noble, (as happened several times in the 
 ourse of this century,) amused himself, while hunting, by 
 hooting down peasants, he only expressed in a more brutal 
 nanner than others, what many retained in their hearts. 
 
 " But where is my brother 1" resumed the marquis. '■ Is he 
 liding himself? Let us go and see." 
 
 " Go," said the bishop. 
 
 XV. 
 
 KEMONS TRANCES. 
 
 " My father," he resumed when his nephew had gone out, 
 ' I should have done quite as well, I believe, to leave you in 
 jeace at your inn, as to invite you here, to listen to the follies 
 )f my nephew. But what is to be done 1 Bad examples, — 
 
 jrouth— " 
 
 " But he must have been young a long time, it seems to 
 ne." 
 " Yee, — ^in fact — ^he is thirty, — ^past, — " ■ 
 Thirty-five, he should have said. 
 " Bad examples," he repeated, " camp life,^-although, in 
 
72 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 fact, he has only made one campaign — ^in Languedoc. But he 
 is brave, my nephew. He is very brave." 
 
 The poor man seemed delighted to find at least one thing 
 which he might praise in his most unworthy Benjamin. 
 
 " Brave, very brave." 
 
 " Alas ! my lord," said Bridaine, " the world has never 
 lacked brave men." 
 
 " Did I say that he was only brave ?" interrupted the pre- 
 late, almost offended. 
 
 " He has but little respect for you — " 
 
 " Yes — he is not always precisely — what I would wish him 
 to be." 
 
 " Little also for propriety — " 
 
 " Yes — just now — in your presence — oh ! at court he is 
 charming. Quite recently, Madame de Pompadour — " 
 
 " Little for religion — " 
 
 "I confess that he — ^but that has not hindered him from 
 performing his duty, when it called him to %ht for religion. 
 Besides, you have seen him at work — " 
 
 " Yes, unhappily." 
 
 " What do you mean ]" 
 
 " I have a meaning, my lord ; and I ought perhaps to be 
 astonished that a bishop should not understand me. But 
 pardon me. You know my habit. I tell the truth to everyr 
 body." 
 
 " Go on, go on," said the bishop, with a somewhat forced 
 smile; "you are but exercising your prerogative. You are 
 authorized by the pope to preach when and where it seems 
 proper to you.'' 
 
 " That is an irony, my lord, which would surprise me less 
 in the mouth of your nephew than in yours." 
 
 " And an observation, my father, which I might, in my turn, 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 73 
 
 look upon as — but let us stop this. I am weak with my nephew ; 
 I know it very well. But he is neither better nor worse, after 
 all, than all our noblemen of his age and condition." 
 
 " And it is this, precisely this, my lord, which makes me 
 tremble for France and Europe." 
 
 " Are they, then, so inferior to their predecessors ? The 
 preachers in the time of Louis XIV. had no saints to deal with, 
 it seems to me." 
 
 " No matter, my lord ; our young men are inferior — we are 
 inferior — all goes worse — " 
 
 " Come, now, dear father ! — leave that to old dotards — to 
 me, if you will, since I am almost eighty. Everything goes 
 worse ?" 
 
 " Everything, — ^but understand me. The machine in itself 
 is not worse, perhaps ; it is the same, in fact. But in Louis 
 XIV. 's day, it was new : now, under Louis XV., it is old. 
 Then, as now, society was but a debauchee ; still, it was a 
 young and handsome one. At present, it is still a debauchee ; 
 the same, if you choose, but decrepid, worn out, hideous. 
 With Madame de la Valliere, it was twenty years of age ; 
 with Madame de Pompadour, it is forty. Yes, you are right — 
 too right : your nephew, as you say, is no worse than others. 
 But do you know where it is that I perceive the decline, the 
 real decline 1 It is not in the greater or less degree of corrup- 
 tion in professed libertines ; it is in the universal relaxation of 
 all bonds ; in the facility with which everybody takes part in 
 it ; it is, — allow me to say it — for I hope you will not do me 
 the injustice to attribute my words to a petty jealousy of call- 
 ing — it is, I say, in the heedlessness with which religion itself 
 follows in the train of the tastes and ideas of the day. She 
 does not preach immorality, perhaps; but she leaves open, 
 nay, she opens herself, all the doors through which immorality 
 
 7 
 
74 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 can enter. What is necessary, in the present day, for success 
 in the pulpit 1 Pictures of virtue, base and lying apotheoses 
 of man ; declamations on honor, on humanity, on — devoted- 
 ness, and what not ! All that it is easy for people to admire, 
 without considering themselves hound the least in the world 
 to realize." 
 
 " But," said the bishop, " it is hardly this style in which you 
 preach, I think ; and you are none the less the preacher most 
 run after in the whole kingdom." 
 
 "Yes, run after — as a curiosity — ^as a sort of Danube peasant, 
 whom every one wishes to have heard at least once. It is a 
 drop of strong wine, which everybody is glad to swallow, even 
 at the cost of a grimace, in order, afterwards, to appreciate 
 better the sweet wine to which they are accustomed. 
 
 " Ah ha ! sweet wine ! — sweet wine ! That comparison is 
 mine, I warn you. For the last week, if not longer, I have 
 been enraging my nephew the abbe with it. Between us be 
 it said, he has for the last three months been ruminating a 
 sermon for the chapel at Versailles. He has so polished and 
 re-polished every possible asperity of thought and style, that 
 it glides along almost imperceptibly. And so, when he at last 
 decided to read it to me, I said, ' Sweet wine ! — sweet wine !' 
 And do you know what he answered ? ' So much the more 
 reason it should froth.' He has wit and talent, that boy ; and 
 now that he is preacher to the king — " 
 
 " He may learn to preach, you would say 1" 
 
 "But—" 
 
 " And yet it may be doubted whether his majesty would 
 employ as his physician a man still in his apprenticeship." 
 
 " That is quite another thing.'' 
 
 " Most certainly. One is for the body ; the other is only 
 for the soul." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 75 
 
 " You tilt roughly, my father. I should like to see you in 
 the lists with my nephew. No — not in the lists — I express 
 myself wrongly — I should like you to give him — some direc- 
 tions — some advice — " 
 
 " To which he would not listen." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE abbe's sermon. 
 
 The abbe entered at this moment. It was indeed, as Bridaine 
 had long since guessed, the orator of the cathedral. But Bri- 
 daine was utterly unconscious that he himself had been the 
 innocent cause of the nephew's imprisonment, and the uncle's 
 uneasiness. Upon seeing a priest leave the church, — ^it was 
 already night, as may be remembered, — the beadle had taken 
 him for the one he was expecting, and had quietly gone away. 
 
 "Come, nephew, come,'' said the bishop. "Here is the 
 chief of the preachers in France, whom I have begged to be 
 kind enough to give you some hints, and who asserts that you 
 would not listen to him." 
 
 But without replying to this summons, the abbe had respect- 
 fully approached the missionary. His grace and excellent 
 style were an agreeable contrast to the unmannerly churlish- 
 ness of the marquis. Bridaine regretted to know how much 
 these two young men, externally so unlike, resembled each 
 other in other respects. 
 
 It was, however, with real feeling that the new preacher to 
 the king expressed his surprise and joy to find him at his> 
 uncle's. The brilliant reputation of Father Bridaine, his 
 style of talents, and his age particularly, permitted the abbe 
 to compliment him without experiencing the slightest sensation 
 
76 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 of jealousy. Thus he was surprised at the coldness with which 
 his advances were received ; but the well-known bluntness of 
 the illustrious stranger appeared to him to explain this halfi 
 impoliteness. 
 
 After a few moments' conversation, the abbe said : 
 
 " We shall hear you preach at Meaux, father, shall we not 1" 
 
 " It is impossible. Monsieur; I must be to-morrow at Paris." 
 
 " What !" said the bishop, " are we not even to keep you 
 four-and-twenty hours ?" 
 
 " No, my lord." 
 
 " May we dare to ask which of the churches of Paris is to 
 have the happiness — " 
 
 " I am not going there to preach : I am not even to be seen 
 there, at least for the first few days." 
 
 " Ah ha ! if your incognito succeed as well as it has done 
 here. But come ; since there is no way of getting a sermon 
 from you, would it be exacting too much to ask you to hear 
 one 1 It is late — in truth — I dare not — but your experience, 
 your advice. My nephew would be so happy — " 
 
 " Oh ! uncle, Father Bridaine is so fatigued — " 
 
 " I ? Not at all. You, perhaps, are tired ?" 
 
 " 1 1 How ■? What should make mo so V 
 
 He was exceedingly tired ; for, before perceiving that he 
 was shut up, he had repeated his sermon from one end to the other. 
 
 " Read, then, read," said his uncle. 
 
 He was forced to obey. 
 
 " Nihil aliud inter vos scire volui — " 
 
 " It was I who gave him that text," interrupted the prelate. 
 
 "Inter vos scire volui, nisi Christum — " 
 
 " I preached from it myself," he added, " some forty years 
 since, before my lord regent. Monsieur Massillon compli 
 mented me — " 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 77 
 
 " Nisi Christum, et Christum crucijixumy 
 
 " Good," said Bridaine, " good. I like these clear, distinct 
 ■ tests. And this is one which can only he interpreted and handled 
 in one way." Although the abbe could in nowise, as yet, 
 suspect a malicious meaning to this remark, he felt disappear 
 in an instant, all hope of making the old missionary approve 
 of the strange sense in which he had taken the apostle's decla- 
 ration. His disappointment depicted itself so plainly on his 
 countenance, that the bishop thought him' intimidated, and 
 yet this was not ordinarily his defect. 
 
 " Courage," said the uncle, " courage !" 
 
 So he began to read, but rapidly, and in a low voice. The 
 bishop was in agonies. He thought the world of the discourse, 
 although he did find it somewhat sweet wine ; he loved it with 
 the love of a father, or a grandfather, if you like better. He 
 was distracted to see that the author, who usually read so well, 
 was doing it so little justice. In vain he endeavored to make 
 him understand how badly it went. Sometimes he repeated 
 a word with emphasis ; sometimes with all the vigor of his 
 age-enfeebled arm, he acpompanied, by a gesture, some move- 
 ment which had scarcely been indicated by the reader's voice. 
 But this voice became every moment feebler and more confus- 
 ed. The further the author advanced, the more plainly he saw 
 the strangeness of his work. Not that he did not still consider 
 it excellent ; but it was more than he could do, thus to brave 
 from beginning to end the disapprobation of a man who awed 
 him in such a degree. Two or three times, he had ventured 
 (vithout stopping to raise his eyes, but had immediately low- 
 ered them again, confused, almost trembling beneath the im- 
 movable gaze which he found fixed upon him. Once again, 
 he made the same effort. The features of his judge had as- 
 sumed such an expression of discontent and pity, that he felt 
 
78 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 his strength fail. At the first words of a page for which he 
 had trembled n advance, he stopped, closed his manuscript, 
 and placed it slowly upon the table. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 EMBARRASSME NT. M GEE REMONSTRANCES. 
 
 The bishop, for the last few moments, had at length appeared 
 to comprehend the mute conversation going on between his 
 nephew and the missionary. Exclamations and gestures had 
 all at once ceased. Thus when the abbe stopped, his poor 
 imcle was no less struck and motionless than himself. 
 
 Bridaine, on his side, was more moved than he appeared. 
 Secretly flattered to have produced so soon, and with so little 
 effort, such a striking effect, he was yet anxious tp get away ; 
 the more complete the victory, the more useless was it to pro- 
 long the humiliation of the vanquished. 
 
 There was in the meantime a long silence. 
 
 " Monsieur," he said at length, " I see that you have felt 
 while reading it, all that I could have said to you in regard to 
 this discourse. Do you feel as a Christian and a priest, — or 
 only as an author ? I know not ; you perhaps do not your- 
 self know. But there is one thing that you shall know, al- 
 though I had determined a quarter of an hour since, that you 
 should ever remain ignorant of it. You shall know it, and 
 may you see the hand of God in it ! I know this sermon 
 which you have just begun to read me. I have heard it this 
 evening. It is not necessary that I should tell you where." 
 
 The abbe believed himself to be dreaming. The bishop 
 looked at him with unspeakable amazement. 
 
 " Yes," retiuned the missionary, "I have heard this discourse. 
 
THE HDGUBNOT. 79 
 
 I have listened unto the very end ; the very end, Monsieur ! 
 even to the incredible things which you have dared to put at 
 the close. And if I was able to refrain from interrupting you, 
 if I did not cry ' sacrilege and profanation !' — it was because 
 I promised myselfj — ^because I swore to myself, to find you 
 again, and whoever you might be to open my mind to you. 
 You have read it yourself; there is no need that I should add 
 anything. You have appeared touched ; you are so, I hope. 
 There remains nothing for me to do, save to await the conse- 
 quences." 
 
 " The — consequences !" stammered the abbe. " I do not 
 understand, my father." 
 
 " You do not understand, that when one has done evil and 
 it can still be repaired, this should be done ?" 
 
 " Evil, — I do not see — " 
 
 " Come, — I must be plain, it seems. The evil. Monsieur, 
 is that such a sermon could only profane the pulpit. The 
 reparation that I demand, — and which I expect, — is that this 
 sermon should be destroyed, — that no Christian should ever 
 be condemned to listen to it, — ^that it shall even be eftaced 
 from your memory." 
 
 " You dream of such a thing, my father 1 But it is on Sun- 
 day that I am to preach it." 
 
 " You will persist !" cried Bridaine, rising. 
 
 " You see that I am forced to it." 
 
 " Forced — to give such scandal !" 
 
 " But nobody Will be scandalized. Nobody, I assure you — " 
 
 " The court will be there ! It is impossible. The dauphin, 
 It least — " 
 
 " The dauphin is not the king." 
 
 " The queen, whom you insult." 
 
 " The queen is accustomed to pardon a great many others." 
 
80 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 At these words, Bridaine fell back on his seat. He, in his 
 turn, was speechless. Such bold wickedness frightened him. 
 The trial had been complete. He found in the character of 
 the abbe all that he had seen most hideous in that of his 
 brother. 
 
 " Help me, my lord !" he said at length. " Endeavor to 
 prevent — " 
 
 It was no longer the same man. His voice was scarcely- 
 audible. He no longer demanded, he supplicated. And when, 
 from the silence of the bishop, he had acquired the sad cer- 
 tainty, that there was nothing to be hoped from this quarter, — 
 he no longer even grew indignant. His head fell upon his 
 breast, his hands were clasped, and from his half-closed lips 
 faintly issued the words, " Poor France ! Poor Church ! They 
 wish to perish, my God ! They will perish !" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 TO PARIS. THE TWO MISSIVES. 
 
 The next morning when the bishop sent to inquire after his 
 guest, he was told that he left at day -break. He gave orders 
 to send to the inn. It was found, that on his arrival there, he 
 had at first been arrested as an accomplice of the beggar, but, 
 that upon his explanations, he had been hastily set at liberty. 
 Ho had left shortly after. 
 
 The bishop, and his nephew especially, were not particularly 
 sorry. Tlie Colonel wished to hasten after him, in order, he 
 said, to tuach him, that when a man has had the honor to lodge 
 at a bishop's, he is a pitiful fellow to run off without taking 
 leave. They appeased him, but without telling him what had 
 taken place. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 81 
 
 Biidaiue accordingly, went on his way in peace. He had 
 not been able to close his eyes. The scene of the preceding 
 evening left a painful impression, still more painful after the 
 night's meditations. He wept over society in ruins, over the 
 clergy so little equal to their task ; he saw wearing out, and fall- 
 ing to pieces, all the means by which a regeneration might still 
 have been possible. The salt had lost its savor, as the Scrip- 
 tures say ; ' wherewith shall it be salted V 
 
 It was accordingly with bitter thoughts that he travelled on 
 towards Paris. The fresh morning air, the joyful awaking_^ 
 of the fields, could be of no avail against this austere and well- 
 founded grief. And yet gradually, it ceased to occupy him 
 exclusively. His mind had returned to remembrances of a 
 different nature ; the story of the Cevenol went and came in 
 his imagination. Let us hasten to add, that upon learning the 
 arrest of this man, he had resolved not to lose sight of him, 
 persuaded, besides, that if there were anything to be done for 
 him, it could be done better at Paris than at Meaux. As to 
 the name of assassin, which he had heard applied to him, 
 the tone of the marquis, and the observation of the bishop, 
 convinced him that there was no real assassination in the case. 
 
 He even took a certain pleasure in completing, as he jour- 
 leyed, this rude epic of which he knew as yet but the first 
 portion. He felt, with emotion, that many, still more striking, 
 might be foimd in this bloody struggle ; he forgot the heretics 
 and saw the martyrs only. What a contrast between their ob- 
 scure heroism, and the indolent corruption of so many pre- 
 lates, covered with gold ! Between the faith of these moun- 
 tains, and the infidelity of the cities which sent forth persecu- 
 tion and death ! He too had been struck with the rigid aus- 
 terity of the Cevennes. He had, while traversing them, un- 
 der stod what such a dwelling place might add to the religious 
 
82 THE PEIBST AND 
 
 emotions of a race oppressed for its faith, and he had found in 
 the mouth of the Cevenol, the expression of what he had there 
 felt. Thus, although nothing less resembles the Cevennes, 
 than the fertile fields of La Brie, — the solitary morning con 
 tributed to the revival of these old impressions. 
 
 But he was approaching Paris, and other thoughts began to 
 present themselves to his mind. One, in particular, occupied 
 him. He had received at Meaux, from a confidential person, 
 informed of his journey, two notes, whose contents awakened 
 a lively curiosity. One ran thus : 
 
 " You will stop first at my house, dear father. I consider 
 it of infinite importance that you should not see a living soul 
 before you have talked with me. 
 
 " Your very devoted Christopher, 
 
 " Archbishop of Paris." 
 
 The other, still shorter, contained the following words : 
 " You will have the goodness, my father, to see no one in 
 Paris before me. " Your affectionate Choiseul." 
 
 Two such contradictory missives, could not but somewhat 
 embarras him. Bridaine had from the first intended to pre- 
 sent himself immediately to the archbishop ; but how was he 
 to affront the duke by paying no attention to a demand thus 
 expressed ? Not that he was inclined to tremble before the 
 imperious minister ; but if he were little disposed to yield to 
 him from weakness, neither had he any reason for objecting to 
 please him in what did not go against his conscience. 
 
 He had reached thus far in his reflections, when a carriage 
 which had just passed him, stopped at the door of a little 
 church. He saw a priest alight from it. This priest, to his 
 great sirprise, was the abbe de Narniers. 
 
 We will now let him go on towards Paris, while we see 
 what events were connected with his journey. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 83 
 
 XIX. 
 CONTRADICTIONS AND INCONSISTENCIES. 
 
 Good or bad, pure or impure, all the instincts and all the 
 necessities of man were at this period united against order, 
 or rather against established disorder. 
 
 Good and bad, pure and impure, all principles in this state 
 of things were so blended, that it was impossible yet to know 
 what should be maintained and what destroyed, at a later 
 period. 
 
 For these reasons, both in the attack and in the defence, 
 were to be perceived incoherences, contradictions, follies. 
 
 Liberty was demanded, and before it had been obtained, it 
 was already rendered disreputable by every excess of license. 
 
 Virtue was preached in the morning ; in the evening it was 
 laughed at, and represented as laughable. 
 
 In speaking to the people, they are called the nation; in 
 speaking o/'them, the rabble. 
 
 Fenelon is deified, but in making him out a free-thinker, al- 
 most an infidel. 
 
 The flatterers of Louis XIV. are execrated, but even those 
 by whom this is done, prostrate themselves before Louis XV. 
 
 The Montespan, the Maintenon are talked of with great dis- 
 dain, but sufficient incense cannot be found for Madame de 
 Pompadour. 
 
 The people, who have as yet no rights, — imagine that they 
 have them ; the nobles who do possess rights, no longer dare 
 appear to think so. 
 
 The parliaments take the position of representatives of the 
 nation which has, as yet, no existence ; they are put down by 
 the royal authority which begu\s to exist no longer. 
 
84 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 In everything, everywhere and under all forms, are scepti- 
 cism, infidelity, discontent, feur or desire, — or rather, fear and 
 desire both at the same time. 
 
 Driven ahout by so many contrary winds, tossed about be- 
 tween shoals but too well known, and those which could as yet 
 be known by none, the crew of the old vessel were ready 
 like the Pagan navigators of old, to ask who should be cast 
 into the sea, in order to appease the fury of the gods. 
 
 There were three existing powers. 
 
 Philosophy, the outlet of all new ideas. 
 
 Royalty, the symbol and centre of all old ideas. 
 
 Lastly, the Church, detesting Philosophy and distrusting 
 Royalty. 
 
 Whilst Royalty and the Church were ostensibly uniting 
 their efforts against Philosophy, another union was secretly 
 being effected ; that of Philosophy and Royalty. The ideas of 
 the day were establishing themselves, if not on the throne, 
 at least around it. They were instilling themselves into all 
 the channels through which royal action was spread abroad. 
 
 Philosophy believed herself doing honor to royalty. In 
 some respects this was true. Accordingly, she wished her re- 
 ward ; but that which she most of all desired, the ruin of the 
 Church, she dared not yet demand, and royalty, besides, 
 would not have granted it. 
 
 A medium was accordingly sought. Was there not some- 
 thing to be found in the Church, belonging to her in a sufficient 
 degree, to make its destruction agreeable to the philosophers, 
 and yet not in a sufficient degree to make its sacrifice seem 
 like the sacrifice of the Church herself? 
 
 This something was found to exist ; it was the order of the 
 Jesuits. 
 
 It is to be then, at their expense, that royal despotism, and 
 
THK HUGUENOT. 85 
 
 parliamentary privileges, are to purchase, — not peace, not even 
 a truce, for Philosophy does not promise to arrest her pro- 
 gress, — but the favor of a little less bloody war. They are 
 to be thrown to the wave which already wets the first steps 
 of the throne. The wave will not recede, but it will remain 
 perhaps a moment without advancing, and even if it should 
 advance more rapidly afterwards, it will still be so much gain- 
 ed. Louis XV. has said : " This will last as long as I do." 
 
 XX. 
 
 TRUE POSITION OF THE JESUITS. 
 
 The society of the Jesuits only, among human institutions, 
 has had the singular honor of numbering almost constantly 
 among its adversaries, the majority of bad, and the majority 
 of good men. 
 
 The majority of bad men, we say. As the advanced guard 
 of the church, it received first, and courageously, all the blows 
 aimed at religion, morals, and order. 
 
 The majority of good men we add, for by its pride, its des- 
 potism, its intrigues, and its relaxed or impure maxims, it has 
 itself done immense injury to religion and to the church. 
 
 Good and bad, then, had equally strong reason not to be its 
 friends. It must fall. 
 
 In 1760, after two centuries of tolerably brisk skirmishing, 
 the two armies began to range themselves in battle order. The 
 ranks opposed to the Jesuits, were seen to increase every 
 day ; theirs also, received additions, — if not of friends, — at least 
 of those who felt that the enemy was not going to stop after 
 having laid them prostrate. 
 
 They had always proclaimed themselves not only as the de- 
 
 8 
 
86 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 fenders, but the representatives of religion ; they said it was 
 impossible to touch them without shaking religion. This as- 
 sertion, long false, had now become true. For the past thirty- 
 years, the writings directed against them, were manifestly in- 
 tended to reach further. It was religion and Christianity 
 which were scourged over their shoulders. 
 
 Thence the protection accorded them by the bishops, who 
 did not and could not like them ; thence also the indecision 
 of royalty in respect to them. They could with equal truth 
 bo pointed out as the supports and the enemies of royal 
 authority ; its supports, in virtue of the spirit of submission 
 which they inculcated ; its enemies, because their true sover- 
 eign was at Eome, and they were felt to be ready if the case 
 required it, to make very light of any other authority than his 
 or their own. They had never honestly recognized nor taught 
 the gallican decrees of 1682. Such as Loyola had made them, 
 they might be expected to appear, as soon as there was a pos- 
 sibility of their becoming themselves again. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 EXPULSION OP THE JESUITS FROM PORTUGAL. 
 
 A king, besides, had already put his hand to the work. The 
 Jesuits had just been expelled fi-om one of the most Catholic 
 countries of Europe, Portugal. 
 
 Their expulsion, it is true, was in reality neither the work 
 of the country nor the king. The country had no violent dis- 
 like for them ; the king troubled himself about nothing.* 
 Pombal, his minister, had accomplished all. 
 
 Pombal was one of those men who do nothing, r ot even 
 * Joseph I. ascended the throne in 1750. 
 
THE HUGDBNOT. 87 
 
 good, except by sword thrusts. The ruin of the Jesuits, he 
 determined, should distinguish his ministry, as the ahasement 
 of the nobles did that of Richelieu. Ho conceived the thing 
 nobly ; he executed it atrociously. 
 
 An exchange of territory had been agreed upon in 1750, 
 between Spain and Portugal. Portugal gave up San-Sacra- 
 mento, and in return received the seven reductions of Uruguay, 
 conquered and civilized by the Jesuits. 
 
 What are we to think of this civilization, so much boasted 
 of by themselves and their friends, so much criticised by all 
 their detractors ■? 
 
 As in all their works, good and evil were there to be found 
 most profoundly mingled. 
 
 The savages were Christians ; but they only possessed a few 
 Catholic forms, and a few imperfect rudiments of Christianity. 
 
 In law, they were free ; in fact, slaves. Their bondage was 
 gentle, but absolute. 
 
 They had been raised to the rank of men, but they were 
 kept children. 
 
 They were happy, it is true, and that is at least something ; 
 but they were only so upon condition of remaining evermore 
 isolated, evermore under tutelage. 
 
 However, the Jesuits had become attached to the soil which 
 they had taught these people to cultivate. They knew, in 
 some degree, what it was to have a country. 
 
 Great, then, was the anger of those of Uruguay, when they 
 received orders from Pombal to quit the province. Cultivators 
 were no longer required there. Nothing was dreamed of but 
 the gold mines just discovered, and it was not desirable to be 
 obliged to share their products with the Jesuits. 
 
 The colonists resisted. Pombal accused the Jesuits of 
 having instigated them to this. 
 
88 THE PBIEST AND 
 
 W as it really so 1 The Jesuits denied it. In any case, it 
 would have been no great crime. The point at stake was the 
 destruction of their work, and the brutal exilfc of more than 
 twenty thousand colonists. 
 
 No matter ; according to Pombal, they resisted the royal 
 authority. Benedict XIV., at the solicitation of the minister, 
 gave to the Cardinal Saldanha a mission of inquiry. This 
 cardinal was the enemy of the Jesuits, the creature of the 
 minister. He decided that the Jesuits violated the canons by 
 employing themselves in commerce : accordingly, he forbade 
 them preaching and confession throughout the whole kingdom. 
 This took place in May, 1758. 
 
 In the beginning of September, tha king received a ball in 
 the arm, while returning, at night, from the house of the 
 Marquis de Tavora. He was known to be the lover of the 
 marquise. This shot, which had so nearly caused his destruc- 
 tion, was attributed to the outraged husband. No proof is to 
 be found ; but Pombal detests the Tavora family. A tribunal, 
 over which he presides in person, condemns the whole family 
 to death. Father, mother, sons, sons-inJaw, servants, all 
 perish on the same scaffold, the same day ; some beheaded, 
 others strangled, others broken on the wheel. Such were the 
 proceedings of the man of whom the enemies of the Jesuits ir 
 France made a reformer, and almost a hero.* 
 
 His victims had had Jesuits for confessors. The day before 
 the execution, the Jesuits, in a body, are declared to be their 
 instigators and accomplices. Fifteen hundred are thro^vn into 
 prison, and Pombal notifies the pope of his intention to expel 
 them from the kingdom. They are shipped off by hundreds ; 
 they are cast, half naked, upon the shores of Civita-Vecchia. 
 
 * The decree was annulled in 1781, and the family Tavora solemnly 
 reinstj. /cd. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 89 
 
 And yet these last are they to whom the minister shows mercy : 
 others, talcen at hazard, will remain captives for an unlimited 
 period. Like Louis XL, Pombal loved to have in his hand the 
 lives of those whom he felt to be in his power. * 
 
 Thus had commenced by calumny and violence this new 
 period of a war which, in reality, had truth and justice on its side. 
 The Jesuits had, in this case, neither assassinated the king, nor 
 known the project of assassination ; but they taught regicide. 
 They had not rebelled against royal authority in Uruguay ; 
 but rebellion was vn-itten openly or covertly on every page 
 of their books, in every word of their vows. They had not 
 betrayed Portugal ; but were they Portuguese ? Has a 
 Jesuit a native country % Thus could other accusations, equally 
 true and grave, have been instituted against them ; but for this 
 wiser, and, above all, more Christian accusers, were needed. 
 It is the fate of the Jesuits to commit great crimes, and yet to 
 be unjustly punished. 
 
 But to this subject we will again call your attention. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 JESUITS IN FRANCE. 
 
 In France, the question had other bearings. It was felt, as 
 we have said, that they were ready to become what Loyala 
 had made them, upon the very first opportunity which was 
 offered ; but there was very little risk of this opportunity pre- 
 senting itself. Royal power was still sufficiently strong, and, 
 at least in this case, strongly enough supported, to have nothing 
 to fear, for a long time to come, from the Jesuits or the pope. 
 Although, in reality, there was an abyss between gallicanism 
 and Rome, a compromise, observed for so long a time, might 
 
 8* 
 
90 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 last indefinitely. The Jesuits, besides, with their pliant minds 
 and easy consciences, excelled in softening the intercourse 
 between a gallican court and the ultra-montane popes. 
 
 It was not, then, as ultra-montancs that the Jesuits could 
 seriously displease the royal government. Could they, in fact, 
 do so any more on account of the other offences which were to 
 be enumerated against them ? Eoyalty had scarcely the right 
 to pronounce their morals loose. As for their intrigues, but a 
 word was needed, and all those would be at the service of roy- 
 alty. They were quite disposed to use their power, so soon 
 as they found it to their interest, as submissive subjects and 
 zealous courtiers. 
 
 At this period, then, royal authority had no reason for 
 declaring against them : it was, in reality, only urged to this 
 by the ideas of the day, with which it was impossible any 
 longer not to come to a settlement. Thus, before giving them 
 up, it was desired to know what, throughout the country, would 
 be the real tendency of the blow by which they were to be 
 struck. The Duke de Choiseul was by no means a friend to 
 them, but he was not the man to commit himself save on 
 certain grounds. As to Louis XV., he let the thing go its 
 way. No one in France understood better than himself that 
 the downfall of the Jesuits was but the first step tow-ards de- 
 struction of all kinds. But he dared not openly take their 
 part; and he could not have supported thoiii secretly, without 
 wearing out and eumpromising the royal authority. He was 
 therefore enchanted to be able to rt-poso himself upon his 
 minister; and the minister, on his side, asked nothing better 
 than to rest his responsibility upon others. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 91 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 SECRET PLANS . D B BEAUMONT. 
 
 This was the reason for which Bridaine had been summoned 
 tv Palis. His relations with all classes of the clergy, and his 
 long experience in the provinces, had caused him to be regarded 
 as better fitted than any one else to give information as .to the 
 real state of opinion. 
 
 But the views of the minister did not stop here. He knew 
 that the missionary had often had cause to complain of the 
 Jesuits, that they were jealous of his success, alarmed at his 
 influence ; in short, that they did not like him. It might thus 
 be hoped that Bridaine would take part, at least indirectly, in 
 the projects formed against them. Although he was but a 
 simple priest, the approbation of a man at once so pious and 
 so popular was considered to be worth that of more than one 
 bishop, and might, in case of necessity, be advantageously 
 made use of. 
 
 He had, however, from the first, allowed it plainly to be 
 seen that they must not count too much upon him. The 
 enmity of the Jesuits had not so embittered him, that he was 
 incapable of examining the question coolly. If he did not like 
 them, he liked their adversaries still less. When he saw 
 religion the object of attacks which became more violent every 
 day, he could not bring himself to believe that this was the 
 moment to disband a troop of whose arms and tactics he 
 disapproved in general, but which, after all, was devoted, 
 numerous, full of ardor, admirably-well disciplined, and which 
 covered with its ranks the most perilous posts. It was not, 
 therefore, to demand their ruin, much less to co-operate in it, 
 but to say to both parties, if there were yet time, a few words 
 
92 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 of wholesome truth, that he had decided upon this journey to 
 Paris. 
 
 Among the men who at heart dislil^ed the Jesuits, the most 
 distinguished was Christopher de Beaumont, archbishop of 
 Paris. During the fifteen years that he had occupied this see, 
 he had not ceased to combat the encroachments of the infidels ; 
 but while, on the one hand, he sustained Christianity, shaken 
 by them, he compromised it, on the other, by his rigors against 
 the Jansenists, and his disputes with the parliament. It was 
 not one of the least curious spectacles of this century, already 
 so fertile in contradictions, that of the depositaries of the laws 
 condemning him who put his hand to the execution of a law. 
 The bull Unigeiiitus was, in fact, a law. It had been received 
 in the kingdom with all the required formalities ; it must be 
 abrogated or observed. In persecuting, the archbishop was 
 lawfully engaged ; in tolerating, and in wishing to force him to 
 tolerate, the parliament was manifestly neglectful of its duty. 
 It was one of the misfortunes of the age, that it was impossible 
 to wish for good, without doing evil ; and that it was impossible 
 to be on the side of reason and humanity, without encouraging 
 revolt. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE BUtL UNIGENITDS. 
 
 Before going further, we shall give some details in regard to 
 this famous quarrel. It was so connected with all the dis- 
 cussions of the day, that we must be pardoned for going back 
 a little further, in order to describe its exact cause. 
 
 In 1713, — after forty or fifty years of disputes, during 
 which it might have been asked what was the use of an intalli- 
 ble church, since she hesitated so long before coming to a de- 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 93 
 
 cision, — in 1713, we say, at length appeared this bull intended to 
 make peace. From that time, every Catholic knew what he 
 was to believe in regard to the point in dispute ; the Jansen- 
 ists, unless they openly proclaimed free examination, had only 
 to bend their necks, and sign the act of adhesion. 
 
 Some submitted, many resisted, and at their head, the arch- 
 bishop of Paris, Cardinal de Noailles. 
 
 What was to be done 1 The pope had his way marked out 
 as plainly as was that of every priest, and every faithful ad- 
 herent to the principles of the church. For the latter, obedi- 
 ence ; for the pope, since obedience was not rendered, excom- 
 munication. 
 
 But if Rome excommunicated all those who, in reality de- 
 serve it, what would become of her, and what would remain 
 to herl The pope preferred having recourse to royal authority ; 
 and in these struggles, Louis XIV. consumed the last efforts 
 of his despotism, and the last months of his life. 
 
 The Regent, who desired peace above everything, took care 
 not to continue this ; accordingly, more than one refractory 
 individual, whom persecution would probably have maintained 
 in his principles, gradually came to agree with the bull, and 
 died submitting to it. The archbishop was among the num- 
 ber. This was in 1729. 
 
 His successor. Monsieur de Vintimille, went several steps 
 further. Although not agreeing with the doctrines of the bull, 
 he felt the necessity of supporting it, whatever it was, as a law 
 of the Church and a manifestation of unity. But Monsieur de 
 Vintimille arrived in Paris, at the age of seventy -four, and felt no 
 more disposition to persecute others than to be persecuted himself. 
 
 Younger, bolder, more consistent. Monsieur de Beaumont 
 was going to do what every sincerely believing bishop would 
 do if he dared. He forbade the admission to the sacraments 
 
94 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 of any one ^vho should be found without the pale of Roman 
 unity, and who should refuse to enter it by accepting the bull. 
 
 Tyranny, certainly ; but had a Catholic the right to com- 
 plain of it ? There is the true, the only question. 
 
 Evidently not, unless indeed he attributed to himself also, 
 as a general thesis, the right of determining what laws he 
 would choose to obey, and what disobey. On the contrary, 
 for the bishop to refuse the sacraments of the Church to those 
 who should put themselves without the pale of the Church, is 
 not only his right, but his duty. You have, as a man and a 
 Christian, the right of quitting the Romish Church ; you have 
 not the right, so long as you remain in the bosom of that 
 Church, to be a Catholic otherwise than as she directs. 
 
 But among those to whom he applied these irreproachable 
 principles, de Beaumont had the misfortune generally to en- 
 counter people of noted pictj-, of exemplary conduct, of a 
 position which caused all to exclaim against him, parents, 
 friends, companions, great and small, believers and unbelievers. 
 He or she to whom the last sacrament had been refused, was 
 a poor nun who had been looked upon as a saint by her whole 
 convent ; or a learned canon of Saint-Genevieve who had passed 
 his whole life in studying religion ; or the old councillor who 
 was always seen at mass, the protoetor of orphans, the provi- 
 dence of the quartiT ! Can their salvation be doubtful for that ? 
 Scarcely ; and yet, if it be believed in, would it not be equiv- 
 alent to believing that the sacraments are not indispensable, 
 that ;here is salvation as well without as within the Church 1 
 This heretical thought is alarming ; people try to get rid of 
 it ; ihey cannot. 
 
 Touched in its members, in its friends, the parliament be- 
 lieved itself summoned to their defence. Was the matter 
 within its authority '? In law, it had no more right to inter- 
 
TIIK HUGUENOT. 95 
 
 fere, as a court of justice, than its members had, as Catho- 
 lics, to blame the severity of the archbishop. The bull, as we 
 have said, was a law of the State. Guardian of the laws, the 
 parliament, if it took any part in this affair, could in reason, 
 only support the archbishop, and blame all tolerant priests. 
 Far from that. In 1750 a number of cures were summoned to 
 the tribunal and condemned to fine and imprisonment. 
 
 Two years afterwards, the archbishop himself was taken in 
 hand. His revenues were seized ; the peers were convoked 
 to try him, but the king forbade them to answer to the ap- 
 peal. 
 
 Now, this was at the time of the negotiations of Aix-la 
 Chapelle. The tendency of these quarrels was exaggerated, 
 out of the country, and advantage was taken of them to treat 
 France as a State enfeebled and exhausted by intestine 
 struggles. The government, and the king particularly, would 
 have preferred continuing the matter, but it was import- 
 ant, at any time, to show foreigners that he was master at 
 home. 
 
 Accordingly, a decree of the king's council, broke and an- 
 nulled those of the Parliament. The bull was again proclaimed 
 a State law. The jurisdiction of bishops in all matter? per- 
 taining to the sacraments, was declared intact and sovereign. 
 
 Thereupon, innumerable remonstrances, in which the hu- 
 mility of the style only served to make the boldness of the 
 matter more remarkable. The parliament submitted, but 
 with that affected resignation which serves far better than an 
 outcry, to call down upon despotism the attention and indig- 
 nation of the people. 
 
 Then came a new edict, forbidding the parliament to meddle 
 in these affairs. New remonstrances. Threats of suspending 
 tbo course of justice. 
 
96 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 This threat was soon put into execution. Justice was suspend- 
 ed, the Palace of justice abandoned. The parliament assembled 
 once more, however, in order to pronounce in spite of the 
 king's prohibition, a solemn decree, interdicting the refusal of 
 the sacraments. 
 
 This decree was the overthrow of the monarchy. It was 
 necessary either to punish it or to abdicate. The parliament 
 was accordingly dissolved ; its members were dispersed in 
 exile all over France, and some of the boldest, especially the 
 Abbe de Chauvelin, were imprisoned in the different fortresses. 
 
 The government hoped then to succeed in inducing the arch 
 bishop to be more moderate. Monsieur de Beaumont resisted, 
 and a letter de coicliet sent him to Conflans. 
 
 In the meantime, the Abbe de Bemis was at Eome, nego 
 tiating for a new interpretation of the bull. Benedict XIV., 
 the most tolerant of popes, was willing to do all he could, but 
 what could he yield ? He resolved to drown in a long ency 
 clical letter, all that which was most offensive in the work of 
 Innocent XI. A wide door was opened to all who wished to have 
 pardon. It was still required that the bull should be accepted, 
 but people were allowed to a certain point, the permission to 
 determine in their own minds, in what sense they would ac 
 cept it. The toleration and enlightenment of the pope, con 
 eluded, in fact, by legalizing that which morals, even mere 
 human morals, have always looked upon as unworthy of an hon- 
 est man ; a mental reservation. 
 
 But appearances were saved. The parliament was recalled, 
 at first in part, then entirely. Humble but conquering, it re- 
 entered that Paris of which it was the idol ; and the king, 
 who was in need of funds, endured the public rejoicings with 
 tolerable fortitude. They sang, and then they paid. 
 
 In the meantime, the honorable men on either side, wanted 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 97 
 
 none of the pope's explanations. The archbishop and the most 
 pious of the Jansenists had remained upon the original grounds 
 of the dispute. The former continued to punish, the others to 
 resist. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE PLACE DB GEiilVB. THE PRIEST AND THE HUGUENOT. 
 
 When Bridaine finally entered Paris, his hesitation was at 
 an end. He would go first to the archbishop. 
 
 The night had set m, for he had stopped in a village on pur- 
 pose not to arrive in the day-time. As he crossed the place 
 which, it is said, might be paved, and more than paved 
 with the heads which it has seen fall, — the Grfeve, — he felt his 
 hand suddenly sprinkled with a cold and sticky substance. 
 It was blood. His horse's foot had slipped in a pool, and as 
 far the twilight permitted him to judge, this pool was crimson. 
 
 Whose blood was this ? Through what tortures had the 
 unhappy wretch there killed, passed, before expiring ? — for at 
 this epoch, justice was rarely satisfied with killing her victim. 
 A body whose head alone was missing, would have appeared 
 to her an unworthy prey. The condemned must/eeZ himself 
 dying ; if he implored for a prompt death, she answered him, as 
 did Caligula of old ; " I am not yet reconciled with thee." The 
 last stroke was a favor, 'a coup-de-grdce, (mercy stroke,) for this 
 was the origin of this expression, figurative and enfeebled at 
 the present time, but then atrociously true. 
 
 Whose, then, was this blood? Bridaine paused; his eye 
 questioned the pavement. 
 
 A few steps off, he perceived a man who appeared animated 
 by the same thoughts. He had his eyes fixed upon the ground, 
 and had not turned at the sound of the horse's step. 
 
 9 
 
98 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Monsieur," he said to him, " who has been — " 
 
 He did not know with what verb to complete his phrase. 
 Blood then flowed in so many different wUys, that it was im- 
 possible to know what word to employ. 
 
 " An assassm," replied the man, " from what I hear." 
 
 At the sound of this voice, Bridaine approached him quickly. 
 " It is you !" he exclaimed. 
 
 He had recognized Eabaut. 
 
 " It is you !" said the latter. Then he added, with a smile, 
 " You see that we meet again." 
 
 " I left an imknown ; I now meet — " 
 
 "Ah! I understand. My Judas must have told you who 
 I am." 
 
 " It was he. But call him no longer Judas." 
 
 " He repents ?" 
 
 " Did you not perceive it ?" 
 
 " May God forgive him." 
 
 "And you r 
 
 " I ■? I have done so." 
 
 " Good. But what was his crime 1" 
 
 "He did not tell you]" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " It would be a long story, and this is scarcely the place." 
 
 " Yes ; in fact, this place — Will you allow me one question ]" 
 
 "Say on." 
 
 " What were you doing here, in this blood V 
 
 " I was familiarizing myself with the spot." 
 
 " I do not understand — " 
 
 " You do not understand that when a man is named Rabaut, 
 he may have — some interest — in what passes here f 
 
 " But it is now many years — " 
 
 " Many years, it is true, since any of us have been taken. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 99 
 
 But to which of those who have heen taken has mercy ever 
 been shown ■?" 
 
 Bridaine sighed deeply, and went on his way. 
 
 " Go !" murmured the outlaw, " go ! — go and hide the crim- 
 son which must flush thy brow, at thought of the cruelties of 
 thy Church ! — go and stifle thy sighs of pity ! — go, get thee thy 
 priest's heart again! Oh! the Church! — the Church! The 
 lamb which has become a tiger ! — the martyr which has be- 
 come executioner ! The white robe of old, which for a 
 thousand years has been steeped in blood ! Oh God ! Thou 
 who didst repent Thee of having made man ! dost Thou not 
 repent Thee of having made the Church! Where are the 
 waters which shall sweep it from the face of the earth 1 Where 
 is the abyss deep enough to swallow up all its iniquities? 
 This blood burns my feet ! Good God ! is mine also Tine day 
 to flow 1 The scaffold, — the executioners ! Ah !" 
 
 He shuddered violently ; he bent beneath the burden con- 
 jured up by his own imagination ; his feet seemed rooted m 
 this bloody earth, whose mysteries he had thus evoked. 
 
 At length he was able to walk. He went away with norror, 
 and yet with regret, as if he feared to lose a part of the 
 hideous lesson which he had come there to seek. Suddenly, at 
 the angle of the quay, he seemed to find himself in the presence 
 of all the terrors he had just left behind. He turned again 
 towards the place. His gaze was directed towards the centre, 
 opposite the Hotel de Ville ; he seemed to behold in thought, 
 one of those frightful dramas of which this spot was habitually 
 the theatre. 
 
100 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 TENDER MERCIES OT THE PARLIAMENT. 
 
 It was because, three years before, on the fifteenth of April, 
 1757, he had stood upon this same corner. An innumerable 
 throng, crowded and breathless, covered the place, and every 
 approach to it. Even on the roofs, there was a crowd ; at the 
 windows, the whole court ; young lords, young ladies, in the 
 most dazzling attire. Much was talked of the enormous sums 
 paid for good places, and for bad ones also. Entirely satiated 
 with all ordinary pleasures, these people wished to try a new 
 one : they came to see a man killed with all the refinements 
 of the age's justice. 
 
 This man had committed a great crime : he deserved death. 
 But as his crime was one of those whose responsibility belong- 
 ed, in a great measure, to the century which witnessed their 
 accomplishment, the century wished to wash itself clean in the 
 blood of the criminal. Damiens, the assassin of Louis XV., 
 was to suffer, in his person alone, all that the whole of those 
 who had armed his hand ought to have suffered, all together. 
 
 Now, these were both those who attacked existing abuses, 
 and those who maintained them ; for the first attacked \\ ith 
 bitterness, undermining everything; and the others resisted 
 with tenacity, upholding everything. They were those whc 
 popularized infidelity by their books, and those who popularizef 
 these books by burning them ; they were those who repeatea 
 after Voltaire, " Let lis crush the wretch" and those who sup- 
 ported, in the name of religion, all the old infamies of the 
 Church. It was the parliament, which set itself up, without the 
 right to do so, as controller of the court ; and this court, which 
 ispired to exercise, -without control, the most monstrous privi- 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 10] 
 
 leges. It was Louis XV. himself representative and personi- 
 fication of all the anomalies, all the irregularities of his epoch. 
 
 This the assassin might have replied to Monsieur de Ma- 
 chault, the comptroller-general, who ordered him to name his 
 accomplices, and who tore his limbs with red-hot pincers ; this 
 he might have repeated, during the tortures to which he sub- 
 mitted many times during his trial. They had gravely and 
 learnedly discussed what sort of torture could be pushed 
 furthest without killing the patient. There had been consulta- 
 tions between physicians, executioners and judges. The hor- 
 rible areopagus had decided upon the hoot. Damiens had had 
 his limbs nearly ground to pieces. They had only ceased the 
 torture upon seeing him ready to expire ; then they had care- 
 fully revived the faint breath of life remaining ; and he was a 
 healthy, almost a robust man, when Rabaut had seen him 
 appear upon the scaffold. 
 
 They placed him upon a kind of seat, of which the legs were 
 strongly secured to the frame- work of the scaffold. The execu- 
 tioners were occupied for ten minutes in binding him with coids 
 and iron, so that any movement was impossible. His right 
 arm remained free : this arm, in turn, was tied fast upon a 
 horizontal prolongation of the back of the seat, but the hand 
 went beyond the wood. Then a chafing-dish was set beneath 
 this hand : it was not filled with coals, but sulphur. A horrible 
 cry — one of those cries which come from the very seat of life, 
 and seem to carry life away with them — issued from the 
 patient's lips. The crowd undulated like the sea ; the beautiful 
 ladies at the windows threw themselves back ; then gradually 
 they were seen to re-appear, pale, breathless, their vinaigrettes 
 to their nostrils, their lorgnons to their eyes. It was a fright- 
 ful spectacle, this hand consuming without any fire being 
 perceived, for the sun extinguished the flame of the sulphur. 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 A blackish smoke, a nameless odor, began to fill the Avhole 
 place. Damiens no longer cried out; he looked sometimes 
 at his hand, sometimes at the infomal laboratory which was 
 flaming at the other end of the scaffold. 
 
 There were heating, not Monsieur de Machault's pincers, but 
 the good old pincers of the provostship of Paris ; unless, in- 
 deed, new ones had been made, in order that they might take 
 hold better. There were boiling, in five caldrons, oil, resin, 
 wax, sulphur and lead. There stood five or six tormentors, 
 ready each, at a signal from his chief, to bring his horrible 
 potion. 
 
 When the hand was no longer anything but a mass of nearly 
 lifeless flesh, they took away the brasier of sulphur, and brought 
 that in which were heated the pincers. 
 
 But we will shorten this scene : our hearts would fail us 
 before the end. Soon the breast, the arms, the legs, were but 
 one horrible wound : then upon these deep sores were seen to 
 flow resin, wax, oil, sulphur, metal. It was thus that the gen- 
 tlemen of the parliament wrote, after their fashion, upon a 
 living book, the assurance of their devotion to the king. They 
 purchased, at the expense of this unhappy wTetch, the reinstate- 
 ment of the still exiled chambers. By inflicting upon Damiens 
 the tortures of Ravaillac, did they not assure Louis XV. that 
 he was worth quite as much as Henry IV. 1 
 
 All was not yet over. Damiens still breathed, saw, and 
 howled, and at intervals, he came to himself and spoke. Four 
 horses were there. They could scarcely be held in. More hu- 
 mane than man, they had not ceased struggling to fly from this 
 gloomy spot, from these bowlings, and this poisonous atmos- 
 phere. It is now their turn to take the place of the execution 
 ers, and to tear in four parts that body upon which there is no 
 place left for fresh tortures. They pull, pull — and pull again. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 103 
 
 In vain. They have pulled for a quarter of an hour, and Da- 
 miens is still whole, and from time to time he raises Ms head 
 and watches their efforts. " Ah ! the poor horses !" exclaimed, 
 it is said, a young and pretty woman, Madame Priandeau, niece 
 of the famous financier Bouret. 
 
 In the meantime, night was approaching. The parliamentary 
 commissioners, charged with the direction of the tortures, did 
 not know how to put an end to the thing. A puzzling matter, 
 indeed ! The decree must be executed to the letter, and the de- 
 cree says quartered. The crowd murmurs, grows impatient, 
 indignant. " Give him the coup de grdce,^'' they cry, " the coup 
 de grace !" At length the gentlemen decide ; but the decree 
 must be followed, so they cut the tendons of the arms and legs, 
 md after that the horses soon do the rest. 
 
 It was this that Paul Rabaut, the man of the desert, had 
 seen at Paris, in the year of grace 1757. And it was the re- 
 3ollection of this which carried him back there, as he stood in 
 the same place July, 1760. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE PROTESTANTS. 
 
 And for what did he come to Paris 1 
 
 On his first visit he had seen the prince de Conti ; on this 
 last, he had come to see men already more powerful than 
 princes, namely, those of the encyclopedical and liberal party. 
 
 Some details, of which we shall have need in another por- 
 tion of this narrative, may be given here. 
 
 In spite of the stirring up of the clergy, the authorities be- 
 gan, in some provinces at least, to weary of prosecuting the 
 Protestants. Besides the odium of this duty, — the inefficacy 
 
104 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 of the severities had become evident. The numljer of Pro- 
 testants was but little diminished ; that of tlieir pastors, re- 
 duced under Louis XIV. to three or four, had risen again 
 to sixty, although, as Habaut said, none of those who had 
 been taken, had failed to pay for their devotion with their 
 lives.* 
 
 In these scruples had originated, in 1755, the famous consul- 
 tation of Rippert de Monclar, attorney-general of the parlia-. 
 ment of Aix. 
 
 Rippert was one of those parliamentary writers, who think 
 that they may attack the clergy and their pretensions, without 
 shaking Catholicism itself. An honorable error, into which it 
 is a happy thing that many should have fiillen, but of which it 
 is difficult to conceive how men of sense should not yet have 
 become sensible. 
 
 He began by asserting, particularly in opposition to the 
 fiery Monsieur de Montclus, bishop of Alais, that toleration is 
 possible in a religious, and wise in a political point of view. 
 " Civil toleration," he saj's, " is at the present day the feeling 
 of not only all the solid and Christian minds in Europe, but 
 
 * The following is a list of the pastors executed in France from 1686 
 until 1760 : 
 
 1686. /i'!^, at Beaucaire. 1687. I/alijue, afSUnea. 1689. Bertezene, 
 at Saint-IIippolite ; Poisson and Dombrex, at Kimes. 1690. Olivier, 
 Quet and Bonncmrrr, at Montpellior. 1691. Rousael, at Montpellier. 
 1692. Elienni: and Paul Plans, at Hon\,\w\\\ar. 1093. Colognac, nt^lar- 
 sillargnes. 1695. Papus, at Jlootpellier. 1696. Laporte and Guerin, 
 at Montpellier. 1097. Plans, at Montpellier. 1698. Brousson, at 
 Montpellier. 1718. Arnaud, at Alais. 1728. Jioussd, at Montpellier. 
 17o2. Darand, at Montpellier. 1745. Pane, at Die; — Roger, at Gren- 
 oble. 1740. Desubas, at Montpellier. 1752. Bcnezet, at Montpellier. 
 1754. Lafage, at Montpellier. Total; twenty-five. But this list in. 
 eludes only the regular pastors, — exclusive of the numerous preachers 
 tortured during the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 105 
 
 of all the rational men in the universe." A somewhat less 
 preremptory style would be prefL-rable. But it was the taste 
 of the period. No one was able to put forth a somewhat lib- 
 eral idea, without asserting that the whole universe was on 
 his side. 
 
 The author demonstrates in the secv'nd place, that the con- 
 version of the Protestants is a thing to be despaired of; then, 
 after a long theological discussion, in which he makes tolerably 
 light of the prescriptions of the council of Trent, he concludes, 
 that the king is free to establish, if he chooses, an exclusively 
 civil form for the marriages of Protestants, the register of 
 their births and deaths, etc. 
 
 Finally, touching upon the more elevated side of the ques- 
 tion, he expresses his amazement that the bishops are not the 
 first to be scandalized at the sacrilege which terror extorts 
 from the Protestants. " What idea," he says, " do we give 
 them of our respect for our sacraments, when we force them 
 to participate therein without belief, while we teach elsewhere, 
 that those who do not believe in them profane them ■? * It is 
 the duty of the bishop to demand from the king the abolition 
 of the edicts of Louis XIV., declaring that they cannot lend 
 themselves to the fiction, according to which there are none 
 but Catholics in France. If they will not do this from hu- 
 manity, let them at least do it for conscience sake, and from 
 respect for themselves." 
 
 Their conscience, in this respect had been for too long a 
 time hardened ; and in their eyes what had humanity to do Iti 
 the matter 1 Had not Bossuet said,f that " those who do not 
 
 * It may be remarked, that the system of external Catholicism, 
 with tacit permission to remain Protestant, was precisely that of the 
 parliamentaT-y Jansenists, those who refused to sign a formula in 
 which they did not fully believe. 
 
 f Scripture Polilics, VII. 10. 
 
106 THE PEIEST AND 
 
 wish that th< prince should use severity in religious matters, 
 are in an impious error ?" And this was repeated by the 
 Lishop of Alais, and with him repeated it all the episcopacy 
 of the kingdom. " If," answered the attorney-general, " au 
 exact list were laid before Monsieur de Montclus, of all the 
 Protestant ministers who have been put to death, of all the 
 persons of every age and rank who have been sent to the gal- 
 leys, of all the taxes, fines and confiscations which have been 
 exacted, of all the children who have been taken away froni 
 their parents, of all the marriages which have been annulled, 
 of all the property which has in consequence been adjudged 
 to collaterals, of all the persons who have been imprisoned and 
 kept in a long and severe captivity, of all the decrees which 
 have been carried out against an infinite number of others, of 
 all the excesses and all the frightful murders committed on 
 them by the king's troops, and against his majesty's intentions* 
 this list alas ! would extend to volumes. All France re- 
 sounds with the cries of these unfortunates. They attract the 
 compassion of all those who glory in being, I will not say 
 Christians, but men ; and a bishop is insensible to all this , 
 A bishop seeks to redouble this suffering ! Would it not be 
 come him better, after having planted and watered in thei^ 
 favor, to groan for them, as saith the Scripture, between the 
 porch and the altar, and so endeavor himself to calm the 
 wrath of the prince V 
 
 • WordB evidently added to excuse the preceding ones. Louis XIV. 
 and Louis XV, moy have been ignorant of many of the details, but 
 they could not have been unacquaintw^ with the general plan upon 
 which the persecution was conducted 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 107 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 THE MEMORIAL. 
 
 This memorial had come before the eyes, not of the king, 
 for, in all probability, he never heard of it, but of the Prince 
 de Conti. An old officer. Monsieur de Beaumont, and an 
 agent of the churches of the desert. Monsieur Lecointe, had 
 gained access to him. 
 
 The Prince de CJonti had, at the court of Louis XV., occu- 
 pied the position of a brave soldier, an independent thinker, 
 and an infidel also, for in those days the two things were much 
 alike. His laurels of Coni had given him the right to speak 
 in military style to the favorite of Ms master ; but of all 
 forms of frankness, the licentious epigram was often that which 
 he preferred. After the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, he had taken 
 it upon himself to talk of economies, and the advice no less 
 than the adviser had given offence. Disgraced, he had con- 
 soled himself in becoming, as before him the Dutchess du 
 Maine, the patron and centre of grumblers. It was at Isle- 
 Adam, his favorite chateau, that arrows were sharpened against 
 Versailles ; but Versailles, with the king at its head, made oc- 
 casionally pretty good rejoinders. " What is my cousin the 
 advocate about ?" asked Louis XV. one morning, at his levee ; 
 and this word must have been met with and examined in the 
 recollections of the period, in order to understand all that it 
 could be made to contain of royal irony, of aristocratic and 
 cutting disdain. 
 
 The advocate of Isle-Adam seemed, accordingly, quite dis- 
 posed to become, the advocate of the persecuted Protestants. 
 What was his idea in reality ? " Was it," we ask with a his- 
 
108 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 torian, " was it the blood of the old Condes which led their 
 descendant to inquire after the churches of the desert ? Is it 
 to be supposed that his idleness as prince of the blood disposed 
 him to take part in an affair where he encroached upon the 
 functions of the king 1 Is the credit to be given to the philo- 
 sophy of the age, to a tendency towards cabal, or to a noble 
 ambition ? One is inclined to hesitate between these supposi- 
 tions, or to unite them all."* 
 
 However this may be, Rabaut had hastened to address him. 
 a memorial destined to inform him thoroughly in regard to 
 the whole matter. This memorial has been preserved. The 
 details which it contains, prove that the Prince had appeared 
 entirely ignorant of the state and the sufferings of so great a 
 number of Frenchmen. For that matter, the nobles in gen- 
 eral knew very little more than he did. Who, among the 
 fortunate of the ago, was going to trouble himself about 
 what was passing in Languedoc, in Quienne, in Dauphine t 
 In the days of the Camisards, well and good ; but since the 
 Huguenots had laid down their arms, since they suffered in 
 silence, why should any one remember that they were suffer- 
 ing ? Montesquieu was from one of the provinces they most 
 frequently watered with their blood, and Montesquieu, in his 
 Persian Letters, did not even condescend to mention them. 
 His Usbek saw everything except them ; criticized everything 
 save the laws which oppressed them. 
 
 To this memorial were added seven demands : 
 
 Liberty of the Protestant galley slaves and prisoners ; 
 
 lillicrty of the children who had been taken away from 
 their parents ; 
 
 Legitimation of marriages ; 
 
 * History of the Churches of the Desert, by Cliarlea Coquerel. We 
 are under many obligations to this ouriouB and remarkable work. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 109 
 
 Liberty of assembling, if not in places of worship, at least 
 m private houses, or in the open air ; 
 
 Toleration of pastors ; 
 
 Liberty of alienating lands ; 
 
 And free return for the Protestant emigrants. 
 
 Less could not be demanded ; and yet Eabaut, on his arrival 
 in Paris, had found the prince alarmed and discouraged, dis- 
 posed to support at most one or two of these petitions ; and, 
 besides, he wished them less direct, less absolute. 
 
 It appears, however, that the pastor had every reason to be 
 gratified with the personal recepiion which he met with ; but 
 u] regard to these interviews with the prince, we have no 
 details. We know only that he had two, that they led to 
 nothing, and that he left the capital with but feeble hopes, 
 ■w hich he was soon obliged to give up entirely. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 PROSPECTS OF SUCCESS. 
 
 And now he returned to Paris. Would he be more success- 
 ful than on his previous visit 1 The interest of the freethinkers 
 of the day was directed in a strong degree towards the Pro- 
 testants, during the last year or two. Enemies of Christianity, 
 they could not have much more interest in any one particular 
 doctrine and form of worship than in another ; besides, they 
 knew little, and cared little about knowing, the doctrines of the 
 Reformation. But from humanity, they disapproved of the 
 persecutions ; from indifference, they considered them absurd 
 and ridiculous ; from a spirit of opposition, they were naturally 
 inclined to support men whom they perceived engaged in a 
 struggle with established authority. 
 
 10 
 
110 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 Accordingly, certain saloons of Paris were tolerably -well 
 acquainted with what was passing in Languedoc. Eabaut was 
 far more extensively known than he had any idea of. The 
 names of his colleagues were not known, but his resumed, — 
 and justly, — all that had been heard of their devotedness and 
 their perils. 
 
 Philosophical opposition was at this moment at the height 
 of its power. It was about to occupy itself with the expulsion 
 of the Jesuits, and it began to be evident that this would be 
 given up to it. It sought auxiliaries everywhere, in the mean- 
 time. The Protestants, it was thought, were more interested 
 than any others in the ruin of these old authors of their mis- 
 eries. Kabaut, at the time of his first journey, had had some 
 relations with d'Alembert ; but these interviews had been 
 without result. The attempt of Damiens, which the party 
 opposed to the new principles endeavored to attribute to th( 
 propagators of the latter, had caused these to assume a great 
 reserve for some time, so much the more necessary because 
 Madame de Pompadour, their protectress with the king, had 
 been removed from court. When she had resumed her place, 
 and the philosophical party saw her again in a position to act, 
 they returned to their project of going to their mountains, to 
 seek those allies at whom they secretly laughed, as fanatics of 
 another sort, but in whose name they could speak very loudly, 
 and with reason, of humanity, liberty, and all that was now 
 beginning to find an echo everywhere. 
 
 There was, however, much to be taken into consideration, 
 if not in regard to the merits of the case, at least in regard to 
 the method to be followed. There was no doubt that the 
 emancipation of the Protestants, if obtained, was a great point 
 gained against the Jesuits ; but it was evident, on the other 
 hand, that in venturing to ask it previous to the fall of the 
 
THE HUGUENOT. Ill 
 
 order, an arm would be put into the hands of the latter which 
 would enable their cause to regain its ascendancy. Would it 
 not be giving them the right to say, more boldly than ever, 
 that their enemies were the enemies of the church ? Would 
 not all the clergy, and all Catholics still enemies of heresy, be 
 seen to rally around the order to protect it? It was then 
 necessary to bring forward the two things, to abandon one or 
 the other at the right moment, — contriving, however, some 
 means of taking it up again, — and finally promising nothing in 
 good earnest, until after an attentive examination of all the 
 resources which were found disposable. 
 
 It had been accordingly thought that they could not do 
 better than to invite to Paris the man who was best cognizant 
 of the state and the wishes of the Protestants. Rabaut had at 
 first refused to heed these overtures. He had little confidence 
 in men whose infidelity alarmed him, and whose good disposi- 
 tions towards his co-religionists was evidently less the result 
 of interest or affection for them, than of antipathy for others ; 
 but he had for a long time contemplated making a pastoral 
 circuit in some of the centre provinces. This journey offering 
 him the opportunity, he at length decided upon it. He had 
 another plan besides, of which he spoke to none — that of pre- 
 senting to the king himself a memorial in favor of the Pro- 
 testants. 
 
 He had remained accordingly nearly six weeks on the way, 
 making deviations sometimes of twenty leagues from the main 
 road, and finding, almost everywhere, more Protestants and 
 more perseverance than he had dared to hope for. He had 
 gone, in the last place, to Meaux, to seek for the remains of 
 one of the churches formerly most distinguished for its devoted- 
 ness and enlightenment. He had found very little, but more, 
 notwithstanding, than Bossuet had thought to leave there 
 
112 THK PRIEST AND 
 
 There, as everywhere, the Reformation had kept its place in 
 the heart. In 1788, after one hundred, or, to speak more 
 correctly, one hundred and fifty years, of persecutions and 
 revocations — ^for the edict of Nantes was revoked, in fact, long 
 before being so officially, — in 1788, we say, a million of Pro- 
 testants was still to be found to salute the era of liberty opened 
 to them by the reparatory edict of Louis XVI. 
 
 How does it happen that historians in general have said so 
 little in regard to this miracle of perseverance and faith ? If 
 a like example had been furnished by the Catholics, it would 
 be brought up to us, as an irrefragable proof of the heroism 
 with which Rome alone, it would be said, can inspire her 
 children. What has not been said of Ireland ! And yet what 
 a difference between the oppression which weighs upon her, 
 and the suflerings of French Protestantism ! " We lament," 
 says a Catholic writer,* " the state of English Catholics. They 
 are, without doubt, unfortunate, but their race is not branded. 
 The anglican hatred against papacy has never gone so far as 
 to inflict upon their families the desolating marks of concubin- 
 age or bastardy. Their children inherit their goods ; they 
 exercise their worship ; they have priests. And then, suppose 
 they should find the aversion they meet with in their country 
 intolerable 7 Emigration is allowed them ; the ports of the 
 three kingdoms are open to them." To these incontestible 
 details, we may add a fact which speaks still louder. In the 
 memorial which the churches of the Desert addressed, in 1748, 
 to the congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, their petitions are limited 
 to the request to be put, " as French Protestants, on the same 
 footing with Catholics in England." Thus, the condition which 
 has been depicted in so many books, and which is still, at the 
 
 * EulhiLie. Historical Information concerning tlie Revocation of 
 the Edict of Nantes. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 113 
 
 present day, recalled as the ne plus ultra of oppression, was 
 the condition for which a million of French subjects were re- 
 duced to siTh, and to sigh in vain. Many times, under Louis 
 XIV. anc Louis XV., we see the English government soliciting 
 in behalf of French Protestants. What would these solicita- 
 tions have signified, if France could have reproached England 
 with the same severities ? 
 
 XXX. 
 
 "the great workshop." 
 
 About an hour before the moment when we saw Eabaut 
 quit the Greve, a man, in his dressing-gown, was seated in a 
 vast study. Before him was a table, loaded with papers ; and 
 on this table, against the wall, was a triple range of pasteboard 
 boxes. You might read on one, Articles to be written; on 
 another, Articles to be distributed ; here. Articles to be corrected; 
 there, Articles Jinislied ; there, Correspondence. A vast library 
 occupied two sides of the apartment. Upon one of the most 
 conspicuous shelves were seven folio volumes, magnificently 
 bound. 
 
 These folios were the seven first volumes of the Encyclo- 
 pedia. This studying room, with the boxps, was the " great 
 workshop," of which Voltaire called himself " one of the jour- 
 neymen," except when he called it, on some other occasion, 
 " a great bear garden," with which he was delighted to have 
 nothing more to do. This man in the dressing-gown was the 
 chief of the workshop ; it was d'Alembert. 
 
 Voltaire was not the only one, for that matter, who varied 
 in his judgment in respect to the great work to which he 
 brought his contribution ; but, in reality, no one judged it with 
 more severity or justice than himself. 
 
 1 " 
 
114 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " I am still enraged," he writes to the Count d'Argental * 
 " that the Encyclopedia should he degraded and disfigured by 
 a thousand ridiculous articles, a thousand school-boy declama- 
 tions, which do not deserve a place in the Mercury. These 
 are my sentimen :s, and parbleu ! I am right." 
 
 " I believe," he says in another letter,f " that the Encyclo- 
 pedia will be continued ; but it will probably finish still worse 
 than it began, and it will never be anything but a great heap 
 of rubbish." 
 
 " I flatter myself," he writes Diderot,| " that you will ad 
 mit no more such articles as that on Woman, or Fop, etc., nor 
 so many vain declamations, nor so many puerilities and com- 
 monplaces without principles, definitions nor instructions." 
 
 Was this counsel heeded ? " The Encyclopedia," writes 
 Diderot himself, at a later period, " was an abyss where all 
 sorts of ragmen threw pell-mell an infinity of things, ill chosen, 
 ill digested, good, bad, detestable, true, false, uncertain, but al- 
 ways incoherent and unsuitable." 
 
 With what object have we brought together these confess- 
 ions — and from any one of the compilers of the Encyclopedia , 
 similar ones might be quoted ? To prove that it was not a 
 chef-d'oeuvre ? But that was proved long ago, and, besides, the 
 work speaks plainly enough for itself It would be curious 
 and sadly instructive to bring into notice the manner in which 
 these same men expressed themselves, when it was necessary 
 to. praise that as a whole, which they considered so bad in de- 
 tail. The Encyclopedia was at that time the Book of books, 
 it was "the most beautiful enterprise, the most beautiful monu- 
 ment of human genius ;"§ it was the sacred ark around which 
 in future the universe would bow, and which only fools, bar- 
 
 * April 4th, 1758. f Marcli 22d, lYsg. \ November 26tli, 1758. 
 § Grimm. Correspondence. Feb. ]6th, 1793. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 115 
 
 ban ans, and people unworthy of the name of men, could re- 
 fuse to adore. Never had party spirit been more impudently 
 sincere ; never had the old adage, " None are clever but we and 
 our friends," been more bluntly put forth, more pitilessly ap- 
 plied ; never had the Church, at the height of her power, more 
 boldly anathematized those who refused to bow to her infallible 
 decrees. And of this party so united, this plan so concise, so 
 closely followed out, the very existence, if necessary, could be 
 denied. " The most odious thing," wrote Grimm, on the ap- 
 pearance of a pamphlet against the seventh volume, " is to 
 strive to represent the Encyclopedia as a party in the State, 
 bound together by opinions and interests, while, out of fifty 
 authors contributing to this work, there are not three who have 
 the least intercourse with each other.'''' " They accuse of plot- 
 ting," he says elsewhere, " a little number of scattered philoso- 
 phers, who occupy themselves in seeking truth without cabal, 
 without intrigue, without ambition, without credit, the greater 
 number without knowing each other.'" And this, in all their 
 apologies, was one of their most favorite themes. They sought 
 truth, be it so, and we cannot say that they did not many times 
 find it ; but, after these and many other facts, it would be dif- 
 ficult to deny that they often looked upon falsehood as an ex- 
 cellent means of propagating it. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 d'aLEMBBRT and DIDEROT. 
 
 This day, then, d'Alembert was at his post. He read a let- 
 ter signed Malesherhes, whose contents seemed much to agitate 
 him. He repeated the principal passages half aloud. 
 
 " In fact, mon cher, I can as yet do nothing. I under- 
 
116 TUB PRIEST AND 
 
 stand your impatience ; I shall receive your reproaches philoso- 
 phically, and even your insults ; but I persist in saying that 
 we must 'woAt — " 
 
 " In wishing to s^rve you too quickly, I should risk destroy- 
 ing all means of serving you in future. If I wish to remain 
 director of the Library, I must be more studious than any one 
 to respect, at least externally, a decree of the king's council." 
 
 " This decree is only dated the 8th of March last year ; 
 
 thus it is not yet eighteen months since the Encyclopedia has 
 been suspended. After the decree of 1752, which suppressed 
 your first two volumes, nearly two years passed before the 
 authorization to print them was granted. Wait then for some 
 months longer — " 
 
 " Very willingly," murmured d'Alembert, " if we could be 
 sure that then — and in that case, it would not be so unfortu- 
 nate after all. The last five volumes have come out too rapidly, 
 decidedly. If the Council forced us to give two years to each, 
 it would do us a greater service than it thinks. Yes, but if 
 it forced us to give three, — four, — si.x ? "NN'iU it be more fav- 
 orably inclined in a few months than now ? Malesherbes 
 hopes — wc shall see. In the meiuitimo, Diderot will be fu- 
 rious." 
 
 He looked at his watch. " These gentlemen do not come," 
 ne said, " and yet I should much prefer their arriving before 
 Rabaut." He went again to the work of arranging papers. 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards some one arrived. " Always 
 the first, Diderot," said the master of the house. 
 
 " Do you mean that perhaps as a reproach V 
 
 " A reproach? Cuiiie now ! That to me, who only make 
 Eulogiums — "* 
 
 "On thedjad." 
 
 * His Eulogiums on the Academicians. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 11/ 
 
 " In that case, mon clier, I must begin to think of one for the 
 Encyclopedia." 
 
 " What do you say V cried Diderot. " Is there anything 
 new?" 
 
 " Old, rather. There is no way of abrogating this cursed 
 decree." 
 
 " Bah ! Who says so ]" 
 
 " Read." 
 
 " Pooh !" he said after having finished ; " this is the way 
 with these court friends. It is not for nothing that a man's 
 Tiame is Chretien de Lamoignon de Malesherbes. Wait ! Four 
 thousand subscribers' — ^Wait !" 
 
 " I should like very well to know what else you would have 
 to propose ; and, above all, what you would do in his place." 
 
 " What I would do 1 — I — You are singularly composed, 
 d'Alembert." 
 
 " You are singularly hasty, Diderot." 
 
 " Without me, do you suppose that you would have these 
 seven volumes there ?" 
 
 " Without me, we should never publish the eighth." 
 
 « Yes 1" 
 
 " Yes. If I had let you put into it all the fine things with 
 which you wished to cram them, never, so long as there is a 
 king and a clergy in France, should we have been allowed to 
 go on." 
 
 " Very grateful, indeed, your king and your priests ! I 
 would that the guts of the last — "* 
 
 " Enough, enough ! Mon cher, if any are ungrateful, it is 
 ourselves. What ! These people, who could liave stopped us 
 at the first page, waited patiently for the end of the second 
 
 * It 13 -well known that this phrase, which was the rage in '93 was 
 one of his favorite expressions. 
 
118 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 volume, and then of the seventh, in order to spare us a little 
 annoyance ? But do you know that that of itself is fine, most 
 magnanimous, most Christian — " 
 
 " Most stupid !" 
 
 " If you choose. Seriously speaking, do you know, one of 
 iiese days it will be a curious problem, if we should be oblig- 
 ed to remain at this seventh volume, to explain how we could 
 have been allowed even to get so far 1 For, in fact, we might 
 all be in the Bastile." 
 
 " Ideas cannot be put into the Bastile. They pierce the 
 walls, the vaults — " 
 
 " No phrases, mon cher. That does very well for the pub- 
 lic, otherwise called fools. Ideas can be very nicely put into 
 the Bastile." 
 
 " Have I been less bold since I was sent to Vincennes ? I 
 was there — " 
 
 " A few months — just what was needed to set you up in the 
 world. Just what it will be with our friend Morellet, who 
 is to be let out again one of these days, they say. This is 
 one of the great stupidities of this reign. We are tormented 
 just enough to draw attention and interest to us. Our poor 
 rulers are neither liberal enough to let us go on, nor courage- 
 ous enough to punish us." 
 
 " It would be labor lost." 
 
 " You thir.K so ? If they chose to stop our mouths, I tell 
 you, tha: thej could stop them thoroughly." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 HYPOCRISY. 
 
 He was right. But authority had begun to lose confidence 
 in itself; and when it has reached that point, it is lost. 
 
THE HUGUENOT, 119 
 
 It was a curious spectacle, that of an absolute monarchy 
 Uilerating, even authorizing* men, all of whose efforts tended 
 manifestly to the destruction, both of itself and the principles 
 which it elsewhere proclaimed as secessary and divine. 
 
 But these men, it must be said, were little scrupulous in re- 
 gard to the means which they took to malce themselves toler- 
 ated. 
 
 We have already alluded to their boldness ; what shall we 
 say of their hypocrisy ? The word is harsh, and yet we do 
 not consider it too strong. 
 
 It is true that the fault was not entirely theirs. Despotism 
 exacts dissimulation, and to a certain point authorizes it. But 
 it would be difficult to prove, it seems to us, that they did not 
 commonly carry it far, far beyond what honor would have al- 
 lowed. 
 
 " Say to d'Alembert," wrote Voltaire this same year,f " that 
 he is the hope of our little flock, and him from whom Israel 
 expects the most. He is bold, but he is not rash : he is bom 
 to make hypocrites tremble, without giving them any hold upon 
 Mm." 
 
 Voltaire thought he was praising him But what did he 
 bestow upon him here, in reality, if not a brevet of hypocrisy ? 
 
 None of the encyclopedists deserved it better than d'Alem- 
 bert, for none, on the one hand, was more constantly in favor 
 at court, with the princes, and even with the clergy, and none, 
 on the other, in private correspondence, was bolder in his 
 ideas, more bitter in his hatreds, stronger or more shameless 
 in his expressions. One is ready to ask if it is the same man ; 
 
 * Perhaps our readers -would like to know -what Malesherbes, the 
 king's representative in literary matters, "was about at this time. Ha 
 was reviewing for Rousseau, the proof-sheeta of the "New Heloise." 
 
 f Letter to Thiriot. 
 
120 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 and ready to take into esteem Diderot, who at least knew how 
 to hate and to curse without dissimulation or concealment. 
 
 Thus the counsels of prudence, otherwise called falsehood, 
 were not spared to Diderot. Voltaire, the central leader, the 
 general prompter of parts, shows sometimes, in this respect, a 
 singular naivete. " The devotees will say that Diderot has 
 written a metaphysical work which they do not understand. 
 He has only to reply, that he has written no such thing.''''* And 
 how often he used this admirable direction for himself! How 
 he denied, if he did not exactly choose to confess a thing ! 
 What a masterpiece, in this respect, is his correspondence ! 
 There are more forms of lying to be found in it than the casu- 
 ists have described. Read. See how enraged he becomes 
 because people have dared attribute to him an abomin 
 able, infamous pamphlet, which he despises, together with its 
 author, which he will not even read. Turn over the leaf. 
 This pamphlet is his own. He speaks of it with enthusiasm ; 
 he is going to distribute it by thousands. Go on ; he signs 
 himself Christ-moque. He uses his ingenuity to revive his 
 Crush the wretch. In one place, " I commend the Wretch to 
 your attention ;" or else, " Do not forget the Wretch," or still 
 some other form. And in the following letter he cries, as in 
 the preface to Alzire; " I am treated as a man without reli- 
 gion ! This accusation of irreligion is often renewed, because 
 it is the last refuge of calumniators. I will ask but one ques- 
 tion. I ask which has the most religion, the calumniator who 
 persecutes, or the calumniated who pardons '?" He pardons — 
 
 • Letter to Ducloa. 1760. For that matter, Diderot had only to al- 
 low his friends to lie for him. They all knew, for instance, that the 
 "Esprit" of Hclvetins was in part his work. Grimm denies this, and 
 in what terras!' According to him, nothing but the most unexampled 
 animosity and atrocity could have spread abroad so abominable an in- 
 vention. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 121 
 
 yos. But tarn over another leaf. There you see him swear- 
 ing a deadly hatred to this calumniator who has spoken thij 
 truth, this devotee bold enough to attribute to him a book, of 
 which he nevertheless avows himself the author, and you see 
 him particularly amused at those who allow themselves to be 
 taken in by his denials. He is here and there by turns, he 
 changes from white to black with such an incredible facility, 
 and, in fine, mocks and jeers so many people, that he seems to 
 you to be laughing at you also, — just as, in reading ghost stor- 
 ies, one feels as if the ghost were at his heels. 
 
 But that in whicli they all excelled, was the being before- 
 hand with the clamors of their adversaries, and crying out 
 themselves still louder, and demanding justice, — and that from 
 the government itself. D'Alembert, so calm in the midst of 
 Diderot's rage, had, in 1758, gone so far as openly to solicit the 
 punishment of Freron, guilty of having attacked the Encyclo- 
 pedia. " Literary criticisms," he wrote to Malesherbes, " should 
 alone be permitted. Freron, in accusing the Encyclopedists 
 of irreligion, had overstepped his rights. He must absolutely 
 have several months of the Bastile, or of For-rEveque." 
 Thus they understood liberty ; these men who wanted so much 
 of it for themselves. His asserting Freron to be too bold, 
 was in itself ridiculously enough inconsistent ; but to wish him 
 to be punished precisely because he accused them of irreligion, 
 that is to say, that of which, among themselves, they most 
 gloried in being guilty, — it was of an impudence, and to speak 
 plainly^ of an infamousness, which had perhaps no parallel in 
 all that was related of the Jesuits. Malesherbes made this 
 apparent enough to them. His reply to d'Alembert is a lofty 
 lesson of justice and decency. " But," said Morellet,* " when 
 I represented to miy friend, d'Alembert, Monsieur de Male- 
 
 * See in his Memoirs, the details of this strange affair. 
 11 
 
122 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 sherbes' principles in regard to the freedom of the press, I could 
 not get him to listen ; and the philosopher stormed and swore, 
 according to his bad habit." Nothing was wanting, in truth, 
 in the picture of the century's oddities, but that of a chief cen- 
 sor, more tolerant than those who wanted no censure at all for 
 themselves. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 THE ENCTOtOPEDISTS IN FULL CONCLAVE. 
 
 " And /say," said Diderot, " that they should not make me 
 hold my tongue." 
 
 " You feel yourself endowed with a martyr's courage 1" 
 
 " Why not f ' 
 _ " Why not ! That is magnificent ! Let him die, may go 
 and hide itself now ! But I return to my assertion ; if they 
 only did to us the quarter of what they have done to the Pro- 
 testants — Apropos of Protestants, my man is in Paris." 
 
 "Your man?" 
 
 " Yes ; Rabaut.'' 
 
 " Good. And we shall see him ?" 
 
 "This evening. He arrived only to-day by the coach froia 
 Meaux." 
 
 " Have you seen him ?" 
 
 " An instant. I told him that I had a few friends here this 
 evening, and that I begged he would join us. You will behave 
 yourself, I hope 1" 
 
 " I will try. But here is one who has great need of your 
 recommendation. Good evening, Damilavillo." 
 
 Damilavillc was, in fact, one of those who most easily aban- 
 doned himself in private, to the verbiage of a boundless infi- 
 delity ; but none, when it was necessary, could dissimulate 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 123 
 
 better than he could even with his intimates. There were only- 
 two or three even of these, who knew him to be the author of 
 Christianity unmasked, a work recently branded by the Par- 
 liament.* First clerk at the office of the Twentieths,] the 
 comptroler general's stamp, which was at his disposal, enabled 
 him to pass free of postage, and without obstacles, through the 
 whole kingdom, the letters, packets, and pamphlets of his 
 friends. His position, and relations with Voltaire, gave him a 
 rank in the coterie, which of himself he could never have pos- 
 sessed. 
 
 " Good evening, gentlemen," he said with a half laughing, 
 half serious air. 
 
 " Your good evening is very lugubrious." 
 
 " Good reason why." 
 
 " What is it T 
 
 " It is that DesmaretsJ has been at his tricks again, — ^it is 
 that the pretty lady was almost in disgrace when I left Ver- 
 sailles, — it is that friend Choiseul is shaking in his shoes — " 
 
 " Ah ! Good God. 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! Diderot said good Ood ! — 
 
 " ' Nature whioh speaks in this extreme distress, 
 To heaven has bid him raise his helpless hands.' " 
 
 "Hold your tongue, babbler." 
 
 " ' Forced homage -which the frightened heart must pay 
 To a stern God, forgotten until then — ' " 
 
 * " Our philosphers of the present day are more adroit than the 
 ancients. They are not so dangerously vain as to put their names to 
 their. -works. Damilarille is just dead. He -was the author of Ohris- 
 tianity unmasked. It was never known." Voltaire, letter to the Mar- 
 quis de Villevieille. 
 
 \ Tax upon the revenue. X Confessor to the king. 
 
124 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " B ) quiet, Damilaville," said d'Alembert gravely. " Be- 
 sides, your quotation does not apply. You know very weJ], 
 that our friend has not forgotten God." 
 
 " I thought of that, — but denied would spoil the line." 
 
 " Damilaville," resumed Diderot, " have you done V 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, we hope that you will condescend to give us a 
 few details." 
 
 " Details % Nobody knows them. It would appear that 
 the king has been seized with one of those fits of melancholy, to 
 which he has been subject for some years. The death of his 
 daughter,* and that of the Princess deConde,f his friend since 
 childhood, constantly recurred to his mind. He was heard to 
 talk of death, eternity, hell ; and the marquise was not particu- 
 larly flattered. In short, the confessor saw that there was 
 room for him. He so well used his feet and his fists — " 
 
 " That the marquise is sent off." 
 
 " Or nearly so. Alas ! she was beginning to be a little on 
 the wane ; for it may be doubted whether our dear king would 
 have been so docile, if she had been fifteen years younger." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said d'Alembert, " you must confess that it i'; 
 humiliating enough for philosophers to be reduced to cry. Good 
 God! because a king is going to send away his mistress — " 
 
 " Or change her." 
 
 "Itispu^^-ible." 
 
 " Is it our fault, I should like to know, if this -v, oman was 
 found to be of our way of thinking ? Were we to turn Jesuits, 
 because she took us under her protection ? If she falls, wel, 
 we have only to act as if we had never had anything in common 
 with her." 
 
 " Yes, — and if she comes into favor again, she will have only 
 
 * Louise Elizabeth, ducheaaofParma, Dec. 6, 1790. f March 5, 11 60 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 125 
 
 to act as if she had never had anything in common with us, 
 which is as much as to say that we shall not get beyond our 
 seventh volume. Gentlemen, we have courted this woman too 
 much, — not you, Diderot, I know. Accordingly, you have 
 been at Vincennes. But at any rate, be it our fault or not, 
 for a long time our cause and hers have been identical. 
 Now, this furnishes fine phrases in regard to infidelity support- 
 ing immorality, or immorality supporting infidelity, as La 
 Motte so finely said in one of the pasty mandates which he 
 fabricated for Monsieur de Narniers. bishop of Meaux. It was 
 for Monsieur de Meaux, was it not, Marmontel 1" 
 
 " For him, and a good many others," said Marmontel, who 
 had j'lst entered. "But Monsieur de Meaux had the misfor- 
 tune to say, one day, to a wicked wit, ' Have you read my last 
 mandate'?' ' No, my lord, — and you?' replied the other." 
 
 " I have already heard that anecdote laid at the door of I do 
 not know how many bishops." 
 
 " That does not hinder it from being true.'' 
 
 " Nor from being false either, perhaps. But, se non e vera 
 e ben irovato."* 
 
 " You know very well, gentlemen," said Damilaville, " that 
 an anecdote may be, at the same time, true and false." 
 
 "Bravo! Escobar!" 
 
 " Well, yes. Let this one, for instance, be true or false, 
 what is it that posterity will conclude from it ? That there are 
 bishops who have their mandates written by profane persons. 
 Is it false '?f Ask Marmontel." 
 
 " What !" .cried Diderot. " You too, Marmontel, you have 
 had a hand in this pie ?" 
 
 * If not true, it is well conceived. — TV. 
 
 f Montesquieu mentions somewhere, among the list of things moflt 
 rarely found, A mandate written by a bishop. 
 
 11* 
 
126 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " A man must live, dear sir." 
 
 " Sooner die !" 
 
 " Mercy, puritan, mercy ! Old Boindin,* to whom I con- 
 fessed the thing, laughed at it." 
 
 " And your slang V asked d'Alemhert. 
 
 " Our slang goes on as usual." 
 
 " What is that?" asked Damilaville. 
 
 " You do not know ? It is a language which we have in- 
 vented, Boindin and I, to use at the Cafe Procope, when we do 
 not wish to be understood. The soul is Margot ; liberty is 
 Jeanneton ; religion, Javotte ; God, Monsieur de VEtre, etc., 
 etc. And it served us well ; for the other day, a certain in- 
 dividual comes up to us, and says, ' Gentlemen, may I venture 
 to ask who this Monsieur de I'Etre is, who has sometimes 
 behaved so shamefully 1' 'Sir,' replied Boindin, 'he is a 
 spy.'" 
 
 " Excellent !" said d'Alembert. " But do n't have too miwh 
 of it. They might take the Mercury away from you."f 
 
 " And it is singular enough as it is," added Diderot, " that 
 it should have been given you.'' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because it is perfectly well known that you are one of us." 
 
 " Yes ; but / do not break windows." 
 
 " So much the worse for you, morbleu !" 
 
 " Do not begin again, Didrrot," said d'Alembert. " I hear 
 a carriage. It is Helvctius or d'llolbach." 
 
 " Both, I believe," said Damilaville. 
 
 D'Alembert ran to meet them. 
 
 * One of the most famous atheists of the day. It is he whom Vol- 
 taire has described in the " Temple of Taste" under the name of Bardou, 
 
 f The Mercury of France, of which Mnrmoutel was director. In it 
 he published his Moral Tales. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 127 
 
 " Gentlemen," he said, " you are very kind thus to visit, 
 without TOi-emony, a poor academician." 
 
 " A very agreeable thing to be "poor, after your fashion, 
 d'Alembert." 
 
 " To accept my poor supper — " 
 
 " A truce to poverty, gentlemen," interrupted Diderot. 
 
 The two Mewenas of the Encyclopedia were accustomed to 
 see him thus rude. He piqued himself on being more so with 
 them than any one else. 
 
 They took their seats. 
 
 "I have just received a letter," said d'Holbach, "from 
 d'Argens." 
 
 " From where 1" they asked. 
 
 " From Aix. He does not know whether he will come tc 
 Paris." 
 
 " The king, * they say, has given him only a short leave of 
 absence." 
 
 " And played him such a trick." 
 
 "What trick?" 
 
 " You do not know ?" 
 
 " No. Tell us quickly." 
 
 " Upon entering Provence, the first thing he sees, in an inn, 
 is a long mandate, in which he, d'Argens, finds himself entitled 
 infidel, blasphemer, impious, atheist, etc. Woe- to him, if he 
 ever should set foot in the provmce ! The parliament is ready 
 to judge him ; the chateau of If to receive him ; and he is 
 struck dumb, trembling. He reads the mandate and re-reads 
 it : he dares neither advance nor recede. At length, he casts 
 his eyes upon the preamble : ' We, by the grace of God, and 
 of the holy see, hishop of Aix.' The royal mystifier had for 
 gotten thai" Aix has an archbishop. But it was a long time, 
 * The king of Prussia. 
 
128 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 they say, before d'Argens got over it. He was afraid this was 
 only a misprint, and he saw a bailiff' at every turn. His 
 brother* at length re-assured him." 
 
 " Why is he not here," said Helvetius, " for the gala which 
 is being prepared for us ! For you know his Chinese Letters 
 are to accompany my Esprit.'''' 
 
 " And when is the auto-da-fe T asked d'Holbach. 
 
 " Next Wednesday, I believe." 
 
 " Good ! Just after the representation of the Ecossaise, for 
 it is to be played on Tuesday, f The parliament is to be 
 pitied. On Tuesday, its friends will be laughed at ; on Wed- 
 nesday, itself." 
 
 " And you shall come," said Helvetius, " and help me to 
 laugh. I want to go and see myself burned. I have hired a 
 window, a room. I will have carried there — ^but you will see. 
 At any rate, you will come. It is an understood thing, is it V 
 
 " It is understood," they said. 
 
 "Well," resumed d'Holbach, "you know the news from 
 Versailles r 
 
 "Alas, yes!" said Damilaville. "But here is some one 
 who will perhaps tell us more. Well, newsman V 
 
 It was Grimm. He had the reputation of always being the 
 best-informed man in Paris. It was his taste, and also his 
 business ; for, as is known, he was newsmonger in title to a 
 
 * The Marquis d'Eguillea, president of the parliament of Aix. 
 ' f The Ecossaise of Voltaire, written against the enemies of the 
 Philosophers, ]iarticularly Froron. It had been printed for six months, 
 as Voltiiire had not intended to have it performed, and had not ex 
 petted, moreover, to obtain permission. But as Palissot had had his 
 " Philosophers" performed on the 2d of May, in which the Encyclopedia 
 was shockingly abused, the authorities who permitted the attack, 
 thought it proper also to permit the dofeuce. The Ecossais was per- 
 formed on the 29tli of July. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 129 
 
 numl er of German courts. His correspondence, addressed to 
 the Duchess of Saxe-Gotha, passed more or less openly through 
 the hands of seven other sovereigns. 
 
 " Nevrs !" he said ; " ah ! news !" 
 
 And he looked at Diderot. 
 
 " Do you want a piece of news," he resumed, " good news f 
 
 And he still looked at Diderot. 
 
 " What a fuss !" said the latter. " It is some time since we 
 knew your news." 
 
 "Eeally! And it is?" 
 
 " Why, the disgrace of — " 
 
 " Great news, indeed ! — news which all Paris has known for 
 two hours ! I should have considered myself treating you as 
 provincials, if I had supposed you did not know it." 
 
 " The other is fresher, then ?" 
 
 " Fresh or old, — that depends. Diderot, a volume of ser- 
 mons is about to appear." 
 
 " How interesting that is !" 
 
 " Wait. And the author V 
 
 " The Abbe Poulle, perhaps, who has been promising his for 
 the last ten years." 
 
 "And who will promise them ten more, if not twenty. You 
 know what the king said, who has gorged him with livings : 
 ' The hen (poule) is too fat ; it can no longer either sing or lay 
 eggs.' No, it is not the Abbe Poulle ; if it were he, you 
 would trouble yourselves very little about it, I think." 
 
 " It is then f 
 
 " It is, — it is our friend Diderot." 
 
 " Come, Grimm," said d'Alembert, " do not keep us any 
 longer in suspense. Are these sermons ? And if they are 
 sermons, who are they by ?" 
 
 " Did you not hear f 
 
130 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " The joke is carried somewhat too far — " 
 
 " As true as we are here — " 
 
 " Is it quite certain that we are here i" asked d'Holbach. 
 
 " Ah ! I beg pardon of the pyrrhonian party. Well ! As 
 true as we think we are here, and as I think I see you, and as 
 I thought I smelt in the anteroom the odor of an excellent sup- 
 per, — the sermons are by Diderot." 
 
 All eyes were turned upon him. He had the air of a man 
 who understands and does not understand, who. asks an ex- 
 planation, and would rather not receive one. 
 
 " Lit us see, Diderot," resumed Grimm. "Do you remem- 
 ber a certain priest ?" 
 
 " Ah the scoundrel !" cried Diderot. 
 
 " Good. Jfabemus confitentem reum. Since the story comes 
 to mind again, will you tell it yourself?" 
 
 " A fellow — some twenty years ago — a fellow whoitt they 
 would not make priest in France, and who took it into hi^ead 
 to play the Bourdaloue in Gaudaloupe. He had not a tolera- 
 ble sermon. He asked me to make him six. I had the kind- 
 ness to make him six — " 
 
 " At twenty crowns apiece," interrupted Grimm. 
 
 Diderot bit his lips. La Motto was avenged. Marmontel 
 nibbed his hands. " Rather die ! Ila ! ha ! Rather die .'" 
 
 "The end !" cried d'Holbach, laughmg with all his might — 
 "The end!" 
 
 " The end," resumed Grimm. " It is true, Diderot does not 
 know that. The end is, that the said priest has returned, and 
 that he learned, upon landing, the progress which our friend 
 has made in paths which are not those of heaven. Then, in 
 order to revenge himself, he resolved to publish the sermons ; 
 so much the more, he says, as they have had a great success 
 over thcie, that this success weighs upon him, like ill-gotten 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 131 
 
 gain, and that the only way of quieting his consoience is to 
 render to Cffisar the things that are Caesar's. Furthermore, no 
 offence to Diderot, he has in nowise the air of a stupid fellow, 
 and was not driven from France ; it was of his own will that 
 he went to convert our not very convertible colonists. He 
 seems to me a profound devotee. Take care of yourself ; the 
 bone to be gnawed is too juicy for him to let it go." 
 
 " He shall let it go, notwithstanding." 
 
 " Ah ! you think so 1" 
 
 " He will let go, I tell you. Is he not of the diocese of 
 Meaux 1" 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 "Good. I am safe." 
 
 " What do you mean V 
 
 " I understand what I mean 1" 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 R AB AUT. 
 
 The last guest arrived. It was Eabaut. 
 
 The emotions of the Greve had left their traces upon his fea 
 tures. His brow was more than usually furrowed with wrinkles, 
 the premature fruit of so much labor and anguish, but these 
 destroyed nothing of the still youthful ardor of his grave and 
 piercing glance. He was like an old man with all the vigor 
 of fresh manhood, or a man of ripe age with all the aspect and 
 authority of an old man. 
 
 His arrival caused a certain sensation. All, save d'Alem- 
 bert, now saw him for the first time. To the curiosity excited 
 by the sight of any man who has been very m.uch talked of, 
 his presence added the effect of a remarkable physiognomy, 
 
132 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 upon which might be read, as it were, all that had been related 
 of him. The mountaineer, and the educated man, the humble 
 Christian, and the head of a party, all that he was, all that was 
 known of him, was at once recalled by his aspect. 
 
 It was, accordingly, with a certain respect that these gentle- 
 men, ordinarily so little respectful, advanced several steps to 
 meet him. Even Diderot felt himself almost impressed. Im- 
 jiressed, it is true, after his own fashion, for he looked upon 
 Eabaut merely as a very singular man ; but the singular, the 
 extraordinary appealed vividly to his imagination, and occa- 
 sionally with his atheist mind he rose into the same regions as 
 others with their Christian minds. 
 
 If it had not been for this preoecupation, the start which" 
 Rabaut gave upon hearing him mentioned, would probably not 
 have escaped him. The Protestant had scarcely expected to 
 find himself in such company. Not that he was ignorant of 
 his host's relations with the infidels of the day, but he had not 
 imagined that he would bring him into contact with a Diderot, 
 a d'Holbach, with those men, in fact, against whose doctrines 
 he would have entered into an alliance with the Pope himself, 
 rather than appear their friend and ally. 
 
 Thus it was not without an effort that he replied to the 
 polite remarks addressed to him. They, on their side, began 
 to look upon him as tolerably distant, and even not very po- 
 lite ; but they did not dream of attributing this to anything 
 but his want of habitual intercourse with the world. In their 
 eyes. Protestantism was but the elder brother of infidelity. 
 Men of opposition, it seemed to them that all who lived as they 
 did, in a state of opposition, ought, for that reason alone, to look 
 upon them as allies and friends. They knew well that the 
 Protestants had retained a profound and ardent faith, but they 
 did not see why the faithful should have any more difl!iculty in 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 133 
 
 accepting them, though unbelievers, for friends, than they, un- 
 believers, had in uniting with believers. 
 
 Besides, in their eyes, the establishment of toleration was 
 less an end than a means. " When I published my ' little 
 work,' "* says Morellet, " d'Alembert and Diderot were en- 
 chanted to see a priest opposing intolerance ; persuaded, as 
 they were, that it was impossible to be tolerant without aban- 
 doning religious principles. In which, I maintained that they 
 were mistaken," etc. Thus, if they wished that the Protest- 
 ants should be tolerated, it was chiefly because toleration ap- 
 peared to them a step, a great step towards infidelity. Curi- 
 ous error, which might assist in explaining their own intoler- 
 ance against all that did not belong to them. If toleration in 
 religion appeared to them abandonment of faith, toleration in 
 philosophy might also seem to them the abandonment of phil- 
 osophy itself. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 AT TABLE. RABAUt's NARRATIVE. 
 
 The supper fortunately came, to put an end to all this mu- 
 tual embarrassment. 
 
 On arriving at the dining-room, Helvetius, to whom the head 
 of the table was offered, offered it in his turn to the new comer. 
 Rabaut declined ; but as all pressed him to do so, he accepted 
 the arm chair which was there placed. Great was their sur- 
 prise, when he was seen to join his hands, and with his eyes 
 cast down to make a short and internal prayer. All looked at 
 each other, but none smiled. It was because there was in him 
 neither the affectation of the bigot, nor the timidity '^f the half 
 
 * Little treatise upon great subjects. 
 12 
 
134 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 pious, but a perfect, striking naturalness. He prayed as he 
 would iiuve drunk a glass of water. 
 
 Soon, he appeared more at his ease, with some, at least, of 
 the guests. His horror for the infidels was, after all, not one 
 of those silly horrors which certain defenders of religion feel, 
 or seem to feel. He hated the principles, not the men. He 
 regretted not having contained himself better at the first mo- 
 ment, and by an affectionate politeness, repaired to the best 
 ef his power this involuntary infraction of the laws of charity. 
 
 It is true that none but indifferent things were talked of, and 
 then there was but little conversation. In spite of the amphi- 
 tryon's depreciation of his poof supper, the dishes were deli- 
 cious, the wines excellent. 
 
 " Ah !" said Helvetius, "it will soon be impossible to enter- 
 tain you philosophical gentlemen 1" 
 
 It was he, as is well known, who gave the most magnificent 
 entertainments. They preferred, however, d'Holbach's din- 
 ners, at which their liberty was boundless. " It is there," says 
 Morellet, " that Diderot, Doctor Eoux, and the good baron 
 himself, dogmatically established the system of absolute athe- 
 ism, with a conviction, an honesty, and a sincerity edifying 
 even to those who, like myself, did not believe in their instruc- 
 tions." Atheism had become a kind of religion for some 
 men. 
 
 " It must 1)0 oonffssed," added d'Holbach, "that it is a good 
 thing sometimes to tap the cask of Diogenes." 
 
 " If at least he only had one !" said Damilaville. 
 
 A great shout of laughter, of which Rabaut did not under- 
 stand the cause, received these last words. 
 
 " Ah ! the ungrateful wretches !" cried d'Alem bert. " This 
 is my reward for having given them tolerable wine. You 
 must know. Monsieur Rabaut, that because I stand pretty well 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 135 
 
 at court, and am not at sword's points with everybody, these 
 gentlemen say that I keep my philosophy in a number of 
 casks, and serve every one according to his taste. If it were 
 so, would I be wrong 1 More flies are taken with — " 
 
 " A truce to proverbs !" said Grimm. " Do not make us 
 chew the air. It would be a pity in truth. Let us suppose 
 that Damilaville said nothing." 
 
 " Oh the charitable man ! He is indulgent to me because 
 the chicken is tender, and he wishes to lose no time. You 
 eat nothing more. Monsieur Eabaut 1" 
 
 " I have finished, sir." 
 
 " In a quarter of an hour V 
 
 " I have more frequently dined in ten than in twenty min- 
 utes." 
 
 " Let me offer you — " 
 
 " Do not force me to refuse." 
 
 " Inexorable 1 Well, let us say no more of it. But since 
 we cannot prolong your supper, you might add a charm to 
 one's—" 
 
 " I would most willingly. But how V 
 
 " You do not guess V said Helvetius. " Relate us something 
 of your life. Some passages, I mean, some details. Some- 
 thing which can be related at table." 
 
 " But in truth I should not know where to begin, or where 
 to end." 
 
 " Why the subject is already found. These dinners of ten 
 minutes, of which you were speaking, — with how many adven- 
 tures must they be connected !" 
 
 " Your dinners ! — that is it — your dinners !" cried the other 
 guests. 
 
 " My dinners /" he said, laughing, — and it was the first time 
 they had seen him laugh, — " that is a singularly ambitious 
 
136 THE PKIEST AND 
 
 title. With that exception, you are perfectly right. Yes, the 
 history of my dinners would be a curious one. Months have 
 passed without my eating, for two days in succession, at the 
 same hour, and at the same house ; months during which I 
 never once dined without being obliged to post a sentinel to 
 give me notice in case of an alarm. A necessary precaution, 
 for many times the house has been surrounded, many a time 
 I have been obliged to disappear in the midst of the repast. 
 Very rarely could I tell on one day, where and with whom I 
 should dine the next. In short, with the list of places where I 
 have dined, you would have the geography of all the south of 
 the kingdom, cities, towns, villages, hamlets. At the inns, I 
 have gone by the name of Paul, Denis, Pastoural, Theophile, 
 Theo, Tuabar ; it was under this last name, an anagram of 
 Rabaut, that I came to Paris. Thus, gentlemen, if you should 
 ever have occasion to speak of me, have the goodness to re- 
 member, that it was Monsieur Tuabar who had the honor of 
 supping with you this evening. 
 
 " Many times I have had that of dining with officers of the 
 police, priests, commissioner's clerks. I have heard them 
 speak of me, of m}' endless journeys, of my boldness in brav- 
 ing them, and my good luck in escaping them. I have taken 
 part in the conversation ; I related myself some of these ex- 
 ploits of which they had been the dupes. Alas ! I blushed in se- 
 cret at the sad expertness which I had been obliged to acquire 
 in the art of deceiving. I perceived with sorrow upon examin- 
 ing my conscience, that a malicious pleasure was often mingled 
 with my joy at escaping. Therefore, I finally took the resolu- 
 tion, no longer to relate to any one, friend or enemy, these 
 miserable smuggling exploits. 
 
 " It is not one of the least painful sides of our situation, this 
 perpetua' mingling of adventures, frequently ludicrous, with 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 137 
 
 the gravest matters. It would cost me less openly to expose 
 my life, than to protect it by these endless precautions. One 
 day that I was pursued, my friends forced me to disguise my 
 self as a woman. On the point of being captured, I quitted 
 my disguise. I could not endure the idea of being taken in 
 this costume, and I preferred being lost by leaving it, to being 
 saved in running the chance of rendering my person and min- 
 istry ridiculous. God was merciful ; I escaped." 
 
 " Yoi have never been taken V asked Helvetius. 
 
 " Should I be here V 
 
 " You never will be taken." 
 
 " Oh ! we will let the future alone. And yet I have often 
 said this same thing to myself Danger makes us fatalists. 
 One would say that in respecting you, it promises always to 
 do so. On this ground, no soldier, who had gone safely through 
 twenty battles, would be surer than I am of dying peacefully 
 in his bed. But once more, we will let the future alone. The 
 future is to be — what God wills." 
 
 He ceased for a moment. They looked at him in silence. 
 
 " And why," he resumed, " why should God be bound to 
 let me end my career in peace 1 If he has called me to daily 
 struggles, these struggles have their daily reward. Has not 
 God recompensed me, largely recompensed me, in the very good 
 which he gives me the courage and means of doing'? The 
 blessing of those whom I have consoled and fortified, the tears 
 of joy which I have seen flow on my appearance, these are an 
 imperishable treasure in my past, which is worth more, far far 
 more than the little I have done to amass it. 
 
 " One day, after a long journey, I arrived, worn out, in a 
 village. I found there a note, which called me two leagues 
 away. A dying man wished to see me, and I was told there 
 was not a moment to be lost. I confess that I hesitated. The 
 
 12* 
 
138 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 night was coming on cold and black. A good fire, a good 
 shelter, a pious meeting already given out in the village, all 
 conspired to keep me. I read in all eyc^ an ardent desire that 
 I should stay, but no one in the whole house went so far as to 
 say a word of it to me. Then I understood that it was God 
 who spake to me by their silence. ' These good people,' I said 
 to mysclf, ' are convinced that it is my duty to go. They are 
 right, I will go. I shall do them more good by going, than by 
 the best of sermons.' And I went. The road was terrible. 
 I had not gone half a league before I came to snow, little at first, 
 then, as I ascended, — for it was in our mountains, — it became 
 knee deep. The path was not trodden. I lost my way. I 
 had no alternative than to pa^s my night in this desert, or to 
 return as I came, following, if i could, my own foot-prints on 
 the snow. Suddenly I perceived a far off light. It is the vil- 
 lage which I seek. It is the lamp in my sick man's house. 
 How did I know that ] I did not ; but I never doubted it. It 
 was again God who spoke to me by this distant light, and who, 
 in the midst of the darkness, said to me, ' I am with thee.' 
 Yes, He was indeed with us in that house of mourning. What 
 ,esignation ! what faith ! what transports of joy on my arrival ! 
 The door was opened me by a son of the dying man. He was 
 ready to fall upon his knocs. ' He has come !' he cried ; ' fa- 
 ther ! father ! he is here !' And beside himself, he drew me 
 into the sick man's room. ' It is he ! it is he !' repeated the 
 father, clasping his feeble hands ; and his eyes, already dimmed 
 Ijy death, were moistened with a last tear. He was one of the 
 oldest wrecks of our unfortunate churches. He had seen the 
 revocation of the Edict of Nantes ; he had gone through all 
 our trials, and as I learned, had just suffered another. A fana- 
 tic priest had besieged his dying bed. The threat of being 
 dragged on a hurdle, as the edicts order, that of the confisca- 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 139 
 
 tion of his property, which is the consequence, nothing had 
 been able to shake him. To the first, he replied that this 
 body was of little importance to him, provided his soul went 
 jO God ; to the second, his children had replied that they pre- 
 ferred losing their patrimony to receiving it stained by an 
 apostasy. This struggle had exhausted his strength. He had 
 nDw but to die ; but wished to die in my arms. He 'jad for a 
 long time told me himself that this was his desire ; for three 
 days it had been his fixed idea — and I arrived in time. I was 
 there. Now do you understand me 1 Do you thinls that it is 
 needful to look forward to a future reward, when God thus^ 
 pays you, step by step, for each duty accomplished, each con- 
 solation given, each word pronounced in His name ? 
 
 " Do not imagine, however, that all our joy is limited to be- 
 holding sainted deaths, and appreciating the happiness of being 
 faithful. If persecution allows us a few quiet days, we are 
 happy ; between two tempests, we know how to enjoy all the 
 delights of beautiful weather, as the soldier, between two bat- 
 tles, recovers all his carelessness and gaiety. But our careless- 
 ness is a profound faith in the eternal vigilance of Him wliose 
 soldiers we glory in being ; our gaiety, — it is always more or 
 less that of the ancient martyrs, when the day before their 
 execution, it was permitted them once more to unite in a fra- 
 ternal banquet. And we too have our banquets, but rarely 
 unless the occasion is a serious, a touching one. One day it 
 is a friend who brings us news from Germany, Switzerland, or 
 England. Must he not be able to tell our refugees that he has 
 been seated at table with us, in order that afterwards, seated 
 at theirs, he may transport us among them in spirit, as he has 
 already transported them to us ? Another day it is one of our 
 moimtaineers who has passed ten, twenty, perhaps thirty years 
 at the gall Tys for his faith. They are tired of feeding him, 
 
140 THE PEIEST AND 
 
 they let him ret urn to his village. Must we not celebrate his 
 safe arrival ? Is he not returned a conqueror to his fire-side 1 
 And another day, perhaps it is a wc^dding feast. But you will 
 hear there no songs nor laughter. What, to us, would signify 
 noisy wishes, common-place felicitations 1 Is there not a sword 
 hanging over the head of each guest, and over the newly-mar- 
 ried couple more than any others 1 They have committed, in 
 marrying in the desert, one of the crimes the most pitilessly 
 punished by the edicts which rule us. How many have been 
 torn asunder the very day upon which they were united ! No ; 
 wc have none of the ceremonies which the world has. We 
 pray, — we are joyful, but because we have prayed much. 
 The ISO wishes which we may not form for earth, we have trans- 
 ferred to heaven. 
 
 " But our real, our great festivals, are our meetings in the 
 Desert. On this point our history is well enough known ; I 
 could tell you nothing that you do not know. But what I can 
 assure j'ou i^;, that all that can be related of them is rather 
 below than beyond the truth. You must have lived among 
 ■19, to have an idea of what an assembly is to our faithful ones, 
 where they are to have a pastor, where they are to sing, pray, 
 and be instructed in common. Never could a fete at Versailles 
 be an object of more ambition, arrangements, and impatience 
 above all, than many an one of our poor, humble assemblies, 
 which is perhaps destined to send its pastor to the scaftbld, the 
 men to the galleys, and the women into prisons or convents 
 for life. The arrangements are sometimes commenced two, 
 three, six months beforehand. All must have notice of it, and 
 yet nothing must transpire. If there is a rumor of any hostile 
 project, all must be warned in time, for fear that some, as has 
 often happened, should find soldiers where they looked to find 
 their brethren. Thence comes an organization, which might 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 141 
 
 he thoug.it habitually plotted, but which has formed itself 
 gradually, through the sole influence of danger. If we are 
 sometimes several months in concerting the plan of an assembly, 
 still one is often convoked and finished in a .tT hours. Often, 
 upon arriving unexpectedly in some of our villages, I have had 
 hut to say a word to have iround me, a short time after, in 
 some retired valley, one or two thousand of the faithful. The 
 convocations are arranged and distributed with a perfect regu 
 arity ; the choice of a place, the disposition of sentinels, all is 
 arranged with admirable art, or rather instinct. 
 
 " And yet, even in the most peaceful times, we can never be 
 sure of finishing in quietness ; never can one of the hearers be 
 sure that a ball may not stretch him dead upon the very spot 
 where he listens ; and in our history, the list of these bloody 
 surprises is a long one. Four years ago, the 8th of August, 
 some ten thousand at least were assembled in one of the deserts 
 of Lower Languedoc. I was about to ascend the pulpit. 
 Suddenly, on an eminence was perceived the uniform, but too 
 well known, of the regiment of Brissac. Shots were fired, and 
 not a ball missed in this compact multitude. They fled, cried, 
 ^ruggled. The soldiers re-loaded their arms, and fired again, 
 and this they repeated four times. They were but fifl;een or 
 twenty. One word fi-ora me, and they would have been torn 
 to pieces. But no, — that submission which I had constantly 
 preached, I was able yet to recall, to impose upon these 
 hearts boiling over with anger and indignation. We carried 
 away our dead and wounded ; and from the midst of the 
 groups who fled, there still arose, here and there, the fragments 
 of the interrupted psalm. 
 
 " Ah ! how they penetrate the very soul at such moments, 
 these rude songs of our forefathers ! The psalms are our epic ; 
 and the most profoundly truthful epic which has ever been 
 
142 TUB PRIEST AND 
 
 \^Titten or sung by any nation ; an endless work, of -which each 
 of us becomes afresh the author ; a sacred treasure, where are 
 gathered beside our patriotic remembrances, the remembrances, 
 hopes, joys and griefs of each. Not a verse, not a line, which 
 is not a whole history, or a whole poem. This was sung by a 
 mother beside the cradle of her first-born ; this was chanted 
 by one of our martyrs, as he marched to his death. Here is 
 the psalm of the Vaudois returning, armed, to their country ; 
 here that of the Camisards marching on to battle. This was 
 the line interrupted by a ball ; this was half murmured by an 
 expiring father, who went to finish it among the angels. O our 
 psalms ! — our psalms ! Who in human language could ever 
 fill what you say to us in our solitudes, upon the soil crimsoned 
 with our blood, and under the vault of heaven, from whose 
 height look down upon us those who have wept, prayed, and 
 sung with us !" 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 DISCUSSION. ERRONEOUS IMPRESSIONS. PROPHETIC. 
 
 He ceased. What must not be, in the assemblies of the 
 Desert, the influence of a man who could describe them thus, 
 and to infidels ! But for the moment he had transformed these 
 infidels into believers; he had made them envy him his faith, 
 his zeal, and the most moved of all was the most infidel, 
 Diderot. His blood had boiled at these pictures, at once so 
 true and so romantic. If he had not been Diderot, he would 
 liavi wished to be Rabaut. 
 
 "Gentlemen." said the latter, after a moment's silence — and 
 his expressi\'e countenance announced a cliange in the current 
 of his ideas — " excuse this emotion." 
 
THE H0GUENOT. 143 
 
 " That will be easy for us to do," iuid d'Alembert, " since 
 we have shared it." 
 
 " I have too much forgotten," he resumed, as if without hear- 
 ing him, " that I was speaking to men — who could not under- 
 ftaud me." 
 
 " It is this observation, rather, which appears to us difficult 
 to understand. We have listened to you, it seems to me — " 
 
 " With interest. I saw it, and thank you for it. You have 
 been touched, and would be more so, I hope, if you should 
 ever come to hear and see the things of which I have told you, 
 — ^but only touched as you would be by all descriptions of the 
 same style, given you whether by a priest or a minister, a 
 Christian or a pagan. And you will say none the less, in ar 
 hour from now, of me and mine, and whoever has a belief, and 
 suffers for its sake, ' Poor fool !' Am I wrong ?" 
 
 Abruptly brought back to the ground of their usual feelings, 
 our encyclopedists could not contradict, and dared not assent 
 to this observation of Rabaut. They had perceived between 
 themselves and him an abyss, of whose existence they were 
 conscious, but which they had imagined much less wide and 
 deep. 
 
 " I must confess," said d'Alembert, " that you are not, it 
 appears, what we in general suppose you to be. I had proof 
 of this three years ago, in my quarrel with the pastors of 
 Geneva, for having supposed I was doing them an honor in 
 making them out to be nearly deists.* Protestantism de- 
 claring itself founded on the freedom of examining the Scrip- 
 
 * In the Encyclopedia ; article Geneva. The pastors and Rousseau 
 ■were not the only ones who thought the article a strange one. "The 
 whole thing must be read. It is impossible not to be struck with its 
 extravagance. Our phi leophers are sometimes very foolish." — Geimm. 
 December, 1758. 
 
144 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 tures, we are inclined, we freethinkers, to look upon it as 
 something cooler, calmer, more — " 
 
 " More reasonable, is it not f 
 
 "At least more reasoninrf." 
 
 " You make us after your own image, gentlemen. In certain 
 •■espects, you are right ; in many others, you see that you are 
 in the most complete error. You call yourselves our friends : 
 you are so in this sense, at least, that you pity us — that you 
 ask that we should be left in peace. But you have already 
 done us, and continue to do us, much harm. You only plead 
 for us, in establishing, in the first place, between your princi- 
 ples and ours, an identity which is not utterly without founda- 
 tion, but of which we support the whole odium. It is thanks 
 to you that liberty of examining the Scriptures, claimed two 
 centuries ago as alone leading to a true faith, is so generally 
 regarded as leading to infidelity. That it may lead to it, is 
 evident ; all liberty may be abused. That you resemble us, 
 and are in a certain sense the sons of Luther and Calvin, it 
 may be ; but if Luther and Calvin returned to the world, they 
 would break with you much more absolutely than they did 
 with the church." 
 
 " I suppose," said Marmontel, " that we should be at least 
 in quite as much of a hurry to break with them, as they with 
 us. Luther, — he may do ; but Calvin ! I should feel very 
 little flattered, for my part, to be called his son." 
 
 " I understand. ' He had an atrocious soul.' It is Monsieur 
 de Voltaire who has said it ; and as Monsieur de Voltaire has 
 always been, especially in history, of an exactitude which is — ■ 
 astonishing, this is repeated by all authors. It would, how- 
 ever, be a good thing, gentlemen, if, before writing our history, 
 you would deign to study it a little. You, Monsieur de IMar- 
 montel, are quite at liberty to arrange the history «f the Lower 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 145 
 
 Empire after yovir own fashion. You give your book out for 
 what it is — a romance, — and Belisarius has no descendants 
 whom you rislc wronging by giving them an ancestor after 
 your own fashion. With us it is different. Since Monsieur 
 de Voltaire has invented this ' atrocious soul' we can no longer 
 discuss with a Catholic that he does not throw it up to us. 
 When we talk of our sufferings, we are asked of what we com- 
 plain ; when we say ' Toleration' they reply ' Servetus.' Why 
 should they not make use of himl Has not Monsieur de 
 Voltaire said, still apropos of ' the atrocious soul :' ' The ashes 
 of Servetus are smoking still !' This time, he has spoken the 
 truth. Yes, thanks to him, there are still people enough who 
 keep up this odious smoke, in order that it may conceal from 
 the eyes of the multitude the smoke of so many other funeral 
 piles whose memory they would gladly annihilate. You, you 
 are all ready, gentlemen, without bad intention perhaps, but 
 with a deplorable levity, to put this weapon into the hands of 
 our enemies. The death of Servetus alone has inspired you 
 with as much, nay, more indignation, than thousands of similar 
 deaths which at that time excited the consternation of all 
 Europe. Why so much pity for one man 1 — why so many 
 attacks against his judge, when you content yourselves with 
 vague expressions of horror against the church which has killed 
 m.en by hundreds of thousands 1 It is because Servetus was 
 an infidel ; the others were only heretics. Christians, fools. 
 They died for religion, for which you care very little ; but, 
 according to you, Servetus at least suffered for reason. As 
 for the martyrs for their faith, so much the worse for them ; 
 and doubtless it will one day be denied that there ever existed 
 any, as Monsieur de Voltaire is already on the way to deny 
 the persecutions of the first three centuries. * But for a martyr 
 
 * It is kno"wn tliat this was one of the historical theses of Vol- 
 13 
 
146 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 of philosophy, or infidelity, — which is unfortunatt-y the same 
 thing at the present day, — how would it be possible to weave 
 too many crowns ! — how express too much horror for him 
 accused of having sent him to the stake ! 
 
 " Is the accusation even correct ? Was Calvin really tne 
 author of the death of Servetus ? To be sure I see Calvin 
 accuse him, — and let it be declared whether he could do other- 
 wise, — but J see the judges unanimous in condemning him. I 
 see Calvin approve of the condemnation to death, but I see the 
 Swiss churches unanimous in voting this form of death, and 
 demanding the execution of the decree. Why then this rage 
 against Calvin 1 Why defend yourselves only by paying court 
 to our enemies at his expense '? And why, above all, do you 
 not distinctly add, that if we have sometimes persecuted, it 
 was not because we were Protestants, but because we were 
 still too much Catholics ? 
 
 " Another point, in regard to which you come to the assist- 
 ance of our enemies. One of their favorite manoeuvres is to 
 represent us as professing a religion founded by Luther and 
 Calvin. They well know that these two great men constantly 
 repelled the charge of founding anything themselves, of teach- 
 ing anything in their own name. ' Was I then crucified for 
 you V said Luther to those who took the name of Lutherans. 
 They know that all we believe, we believe because the Bible 
 appears to us to teach it, and in nowise because Luther or 
 Calvin asserted it ; and they persist none the less in affirming 
 that our religion had its origin in the brains of these men, that 
 our doctors are their slaves, and our believers their adorers. 
 Well, what they do from dishonesty, you do from — what shall 
 I call it ? Find the word yourselves, I appeal to your con- 
 
 taire. He put it forth, with a ridiculous crudity, in his " Rejlectiona 
 upon Toleration.'' 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 147 
 
 sciences. Never having sought to know exactly in what we 
 differ from the Catholics, you confine yourselves to making us 
 as a mass disciples of Luther and Calvin, as the Turks are 
 those of Mahomet ; and this old calumny which wounds us 
 more than any other, which in the eyes of the multitude le- 
 gitimates all sorts of antipathy and severity against us, — it is 
 you who authorize it. 
 
 — '• In another point of view what harm the grave Monsieur de 
 Montesquieu has done us ! Sometimes, with his theory on the 
 influence of climate, he insists that the north is essentially the 
 country of Protestantism and the repuhlican spirit ; and our 
 enemies conclude from this, in the first place, that our fiiith 
 cannot belong to France, and then that we cannot be loyal 
 subjects to a king. Sometimes, every repressed religion be- 
 comes, according to him, repressing, so soon as it is freed from 
 oppression ; and our enemies begin to exclaim that once free, 
 we would persecute in our turn. Sometimes he says : ' When 
 a religion is established in a country, it must be tolerated ; 
 when it has not been received there, let it not be received ;' 
 and our enemies set to work to show that we are not received, 
 that we ought not to be, that there would be folly in permitting 
 us to exist. You see how, with the best intentions, there 
 is harm still done us, because nobody cares to take the trouble 
 to see what we are, what we believe, what we want. 
 
 " And further, what are your injuries to us and our history, 
 when we have so much against Christianity itself with which 
 to reproach you 1 In the first place, when you attack the errors 
 and abuses of the Roman Church, it is very rarely that you 
 distinguish between this corrupted Christianity and that of the 
 earliest ages. It is not your fiiult if the apostles, and Jesus 
 Christ himself, are not generally looked upon as the founders 
 of the Papal despotism, of the Inquisition, and all the most 
 
148 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 absurd aniT odious things that men have taught or established 
 in their name. And yet jou are acquainted with our sacred 
 books. You have read them to criticise them it is true, but 
 nevertheless you have read them. You know, consequently, 
 much better than the generality of Catholics, how far these 
 abuses are from being found there, even in germ; and you 
 persist none the less, in throwing upon the Christian religion 
 all the ridicule and odium of that which has been added to it. 
 One would say that the Church awes you, that you dare not 
 attack her alone, that in order to gain courage, you have need , 
 to aim your blows at her through everything that is most 
 sacred." 
 
 " But," objected d'Holbach, " you know that we do not 
 admit the distinction which you reproach us with not enouncing 
 with clearness enough. The Bible is better than the Church, 
 agreed ; but for us, one is not more sacred than the other." 
 
 " I know it," he resumed. " Thus it is not in the name of 
 the Bible, since you do not believe in it, nor in the name 
 of God, since you do not believe him the author of the 
 Bible, that we beg you to be more consistent and more 
 honest. There is here, besides the religious question, a human 
 question, a simple affair of honor. You see the Christian 
 world divided into two parties. You agree with us in dedar- 
 ins; the one to contain a thousand errors, a thousand abuses ; in 
 the other you perceive naught upon the altar save a book in 
 which those errors are not found, in which these abuses 
 are not contained. \Yhat matters it that this book may 
 appear to you to teach other errors ? Justice forbids 
 that upon it should fall all the responsibility of those 
 errors which could only have been taught in forgetting it or 
 trampling t under foot. More particularly does she forbid it, 
 f there aie people for whom this distinction is a matter of life 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 149 
 
 and death. You demand that we should be tolerated ; it is 
 well, but why do you not distinctly say that we appear to be 
 nearer the truth, more reasonable, more Christian, in fine — al- 
 though this word seems to you no praise, — more Christian, I 
 say, than those who oppress us ?" 
 
 " We should do you more harm than good," said Helvetius. 
 " It is then that your enemies would say that Protestantism is 
 brother to Infidelity." 
 
 " Do not trouble yourselves as to what would happen," re- 
 sumed the minister. " The day when all men who, whatever 
 their bel'ef, are not Catholics, shall have the sincerity to say 
 that Protestantism appears to them more reasonable and more 
 Christian, on that day Protestantism will have made, in spite 
 of you, an immense step in the world.- The multitude would 
 ask us what we believe. ' Take and read,' we should say ; 
 ' here is the Bible.' And they would take it and read it ; and 
 the religion at which they would arrive, would be the religion 
 of the Bible, — our religion. It is thus that you could, and if 
 I may say it, that you ought to serve us, rather than in de 
 manding for us, as you would do for Jews, Mahometans, or 
 Pagans, an unfounded and insulting toleration." 
 
 " The Bible ! Always the Bible !" murmured some of the 
 friends of d'Alembert. " You consider it then very power- 
 ful." 
 
 " If we are wrong, gentlemen, you will allow that it is a par 
 donable error in those to whom this book has given strength 
 tc suffer so much." 
 
 " It can effect much, it is evident," was the reply ; " but with 
 those who believe in it only." 
 
 " Without doubt, — ^but all can believe in it." 
 
 " Why then cannot we succeed in doing so 1" 
 
 " Why ? Because you will not. Because there are moTnents 
 13* 
 
150 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 when God is pleased to blind the worldly wise, or to allow 
 them to blind themselves. Because we are now in one of 
 these fatal periods, and shall not escape from it until we have 
 emptied to the dregs the bitter chalice which you are preparing 
 for humanity. This appears to you very mystical, does it not ? 
 I shall, accordingly, not strive to make you admit it, or even 
 understand it. I should not succeed. The ways of God must 
 be accomplished. But, believe me, a time will come when 
 nothing will be plainer than these words now so obscure. If 
 they could be engraved there, upon this wall, they would be 
 seen to shine, in a hundred years, with a terrible radiance, and 
 there would the^n be no eye-lid which this radiance should not 
 pierce. Then will have been recngnized the emptiness of the 
 doctrines which you preach. Then your impotence to found 
 anything durable, will be attested by the ruins of all that you 
 now think to build. Then infidels themselves, — for there will 
 always be infidels, — will defend themselves from the charge of 
 resembling you. And during all the tempests which must be 
 traversed before reaching this period, persecuted or not, bound 
 or free, there will be none truly hapfiy, Ijut those who lean 
 upon God rather than man, upon this book" — 
 
 And he seized from beside the seven volumes, — for they had 
 returned to the library, — an old Bible of Sacy. 
 
 " on this book, I say, and not — " 
 
 " Not on these others, you mean ?" said Helvetius, pointing 
 to the seven. " Guiragc — finish. Well, gentlemen, perhaps he 
 is not so far wrong, after all. ' Perhaps the Bible may bury 
 us all,' said Monsieur de Fontenelle, one day." 
 
 And Rabaut, who had been rapidly turning over the leaves, 
 laid the book upon his knees, and joining his hands, read slowly 
 and solemnly : 
 
 " And Jesus said, I thank thee, oh Father, that thou hast hid 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 151 
 
 these things from the wise and prudent, and hast repealed them 
 unto babes. Even so, Father ; for so it seemed good in thy 
 sight.' " {Matt, xi.) 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 INSINCERITY OF AUTHORS AND READERS. 
 
 It was not the first time that Eabaut expressed these fears, 
 these reproaches, these hopes, — these prophecies, we had almost 
 said. His correspondence abounds in observations of this 
 kind. No one, at this epoch, better judged the present, nor 
 more plainly foresaw the future. 
 
 This future has proved him right. The eighteenth century 
 has accomplished its work, and we are not of those who can 
 bestow upon it naught but curses ; for if it pulled down much, 
 there was much to be pulled down ; but its incapability to 
 construct is, at the present day, as Eabaut predicted, univer- 
 sally perceived and admitted. " The infidels themselves," he 
 had said, " will defend themselves from a resemblance to 
 you ;" and few people, in fact, are to be found who confess 
 themselves infidels after the manner of Voltaire, d'Holbach, 
 and Lamettrie. Some few old men, who have forgotten no- 
 thing and learned nothing, are the only Voltairians whom we 
 have left. Some obscure socialists are the only representa- 
 tives of the mateit.alism and the atheism of the day. Believers 
 or not, all men of intelligence, learning, or feeling, openly de- 
 clare that they wish to make other paths, and to resemble as 
 little as possible this almost extinct family. 
 
 In the midst of these changes, one thing has remained the 
 same. All the reproaches which Rabaut addressed, as a Pro 
 
152 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 testant, to tlic free-thinkers of his day, might be re-produced hj 
 the Protestants of the present time. 
 
 Take — in France, for instance — twenty or thirty new worlts, 
 no matter what, serious or not, histories, romances, treatises 
 of any kind. 
 
 IIciw many will there be, among this number, who declare 
 themselves Catholics ? Three or four. 
 
 How many will there be which are so — that is to say, whose 
 authors submit themselves really and fully, not in theory and 
 words, to the authority of their church ? One or two ; and 
 e^ en in their cases, you feel, generally, that you must not look 
 too closely into the matter, and that the author accepts, in 
 reality, only what suits him. 
 
 How many, on the other hand, will you find, still in the 
 same number, who openly declare themselves non-Christian ? 
 One or two. 
 
 How many, who, without declaring thomseh'cs infidels, may 
 nevertheless be looked upon as hostile to Christianity 1 Three 
 or four. 
 
 Thus, the great majority of authors, accepting Christianity, 
 openly use the right to accept it as they choose to understand it. 
 
 Now, it is this right which was claimed by the Reformation. 
 To make use of it, to any extent whatever, is to admit the 
 fundamental and originating principle of Protestantism ; that, 
 namely, — even if the individual remain, in spite of this, fiiithful 
 to certain Catholic doctrines, — of protesting, of being a Pro- 
 testant. 
 
 AVell, among the numerous authors who make use of this 
 right, — often for bad purposes, it is true, but that would only 
 be a reason the more for acknowledging it, — among these au- 
 thors, we say, how many are there who extend their hand to 
 the Protestants? How many do you find who have the 
 
THE HUGUBNOT. 153 
 
 frankness to say ' We are no longer Catholics — we deny the 
 Catholic Church " and to express a little sympathy for those 
 who denied it when it was perilous so to do ? Most frequently, 
 not one. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 ACCOUNTED FOR. 
 
 Why is this ' 
 
 With some, it is timidity. They dare, it is true, to attack, 
 one after the other, all the bases, all the doctrines of the church, 
 but they persist in retaining the appearance of respect for the 
 church herself * It would soon put an end to this singular 
 compromise, if the church herself would bring the thing to an 
 understanding. If she should distinctly say to these people 
 what she thinks of them, they would then be forced to confess 
 that they do not belong to her — that they never have belonged 
 to her. But she is too prudent to provoke any such explana- 
 tion. So long as those who quit her do not sound a trumpet, 
 she is not going to sound the tocsin. All she wishes is, that 
 you should not go out at the great breach made by Luther. 
 After that, go out which way you will ; the sentinels have 
 orders not to see you pass. Still, though under different 
 forms, we have here the same spirit which doomed to death 
 the courageous preachers of the Desert, and which, with the 
 exception of some iusigniicant severities, left the chiefs of 
 infidelity in peace. 
 
 Besides the timid, you have the superficial — those who, 
 
 completely separated from Catholicism in all essential things, 
 
 are attached to it, or imagine themselves to be so, by the 
 
 forms. They do not believe in the pope ; but Saint Peter's, 
 
 * " Our church," as the Oharivari said, some time since. 
 
154 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 at Rome, is such a magnificent edifice ! They do not Relieve 
 in the mass ; but a high mass, in music, is so beautiful ! ITiey 
 do not believe, in short, any of those things rejected by the 
 Protestants ; but the Protestant places of worship are so cold, 
 so bare ! How can one become Protestant ! Thereupon a 
 new compromise, which the church is very careful not to de- 
 stroj'. Grant her that she is beautiful, she will not inquire if 
 you think her good. She will even allow you, if necessary, to 
 deny this. 
 
 And, lastly, come the ignorant, by far the most numerous 
 class. It is confounding to see to how many men, and, above 
 all, to what men, this title may be given in these matters, with- 
 out the slightest trouble in proving that they merit it. Some 
 times it is a historian, throwing floods of light upon the most 
 insignificant facts of the middle ages, and confining himself in 
 regard to the Eeformation, to what is to be read in the most 
 superficial manuals of history ; sometimes, a man announcing 
 himself to be a Christian philosopher, and who in re-constructs 
 ing Christianity according to the Bible, does not appear to 
 perceive that it is precisely what the Reformers have done. 
 He will travel by their side for some five or six hundred pages, 
 without saying so, without suspecting it ; and it is fortunate, 
 l)csicles, if he does not interrupt himself from time to time, in 
 order to throw his stone at them, or to call them innovators 
 or hcresiarchs. Here is a public man, who knows everything, 
 and ^vlio as soon as he touches upon a Protestant question, 
 puts forth as many errors as words ; there is a romancer, and^ 
 one of the best, who will dejiict con amove a perfectly evan- 
 gelical Christian, hating superstition, despising vain forms, 
 I'cading and studying the Bible, rejecting in religion all 
 merely hu nan authority, a perfect Protestant, in fiict ; — and 
 he will be the last to perceive that he has delineated a Pro- 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 155 
 
 testant. Protestantism, for the one, consists in the caprices of 
 Henry VIII., or the whimsicalities of Luther; for another, it 
 is the predestinarianism of Calvin ; for many, as in the time 
 of Voltaire, it is the funeral pile of Servetus. Lead them from 
 these points, and they understand, they Tcnow nothing of it, and 
 they have not even the thought that mere can and ought to be 
 kn'^wn of it. And thus it happens that so many people are 
 Protestants without suspecting it ; so many people thus con- 
 tinue to march beneath the Eomaia standard who are no longer 
 Eornanists, who have no wish, no possibility of again becoming 
 such. 
 
 Among those who attack Christianity, directly or indirectly, 
 there are also few who do not merit, as in the last century, the 
 reproach of mingling form with reality, of not distinguishing, 
 or at least too rarely distinguishing between Catholicism as it 
 is and Christianity as it was. Protestantism, as well as the 
 Christian religion finds itself thus struck by the same blows 
 as its enemy. It is made to bear the blame of faults which it 
 has not committed, errors which it has never ceased to combat. 
 It sees itself in the eyes of many, under the weight of in- 
 numerable anti-Christian objections and prejudices, manifestly 
 derived from the abuses of Catholicism. This may be remark- 
 ed, especially in France, among the population to whom the 
 Protestant colporteurs and evangelists address themselves. 
 They are, in the beginning, always repulsed with horror ; then 
 this Catholic surface is scarcely broken through, when below it 
 is manifested far less Catholicism than infidelity. They are 
 not Catholics to be made Protestants, but infidels to be changed 
 into believers. 
 
156 THE PEIEST AND 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 REVIVAL OP ENERGETIC EFFOETS AMONG ROMANISTS, 
 A FAVORABLE SIGN. 
 
 And this leads us to a concluding reflection. 
 
 If there are some who reject Protestantism because they are 
 too Catholic, there are also many who reject it because theji 
 are not Catholic enough. 
 
 They have accustomed themselves, in fact, not to believe, or 
 at least to believe but little, vaguely, externally, without ask- 
 ing or being aslied what they believe. Out of this grows a 
 profound indolence as to examining into religious matters. 
 Religion is, for these people, like an old house, not very com- 
 fortable, of which many portions have been abandoned one 
 after another, in order to take up a residence in those which 
 seem to be the least inconvenient, — ^but which there is no 
 question of quitting, much less of destroying, like Descartes, 
 in order to see if the foundations are good. In spite of its 
 endless forms, — which, besides, can be got rid of at will,— 
 Catholicism is, as to faith, the easiest of all religions. In this 
 respect, nothing is to be done, nothing looked after. You 
 receive your luggage at your birth ; you are in nowise respon 
 sible for what it does or does not contain. It would require 
 courage to set about making a list of the contents ; and this 
 courage is rare in periods of indifl'erence. 
 
 It is in this sense that we say that one of the reasons why 
 many do not become Protestants is because they are not sin- 
 cere enough Catholics. Was it not at the epoch when people 
 were most Catholic, the sixteenth century, that the half of 
 Europe ceased to be so, and that all Europe came very near 
 doing the same 1 In vain does any one play with words in 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 157 
 
 representing Protestantism as the liberty to believe what one 
 chooses, or to believe nothing if one should prefer. It may by 
 abuse have become this for some ; but the best proof that it is 
 not true in reality, is that among those whom it summons to 
 join it, in representing itself as it is, there are only religious 
 men, or men with religious tendencies, who consent to enter 
 it. The indifferent and the infidel do not break with Catho- 
 licism. 
 
 The state of things is less changed, then, in a hundred years, 
 than would seem at first view. When will it change 1 God 
 alone knows. But we have seen Protestants rejoice in this 
 point of view, at the movements taking place among actual 
 Catholics, and even at the partial success which they have 
 seemed to meet with. Strong in the recollection of the six- 
 teenth century, they are convinced that the cause of the Re- 
 formation has infinitely more to hope for from an epoch even 
 of superstition and bitter zeal, than during the torpor into 
 which Catholicism has been plunged for the first quarter of 
 this century. Its adversaries have seemed to war against a 
 lifeless body. They can no longer make this reproach, but 
 they on their side, will struggle with so much the more confi- 
 dence because they have but little faith in the new life which 
 seems to inspire their old enemy. They know that no cen- 
 tury in reality, has ever been less Catholic, or less fitted to be 
 so. If you awaken a religious life, it can only be, sooner or 
 later, for the advantage of the religion which is most conformed 
 to the true necessities and instincts of the age. 
 
 At all events, whatever are to be for Protestantism the re- 
 sults of the present crisis, it must none the less retain the 
 honor of having been the first to proclaim those principles 
 which now overspread the world. It has dictated, since the 
 beginning of the sixteenth century, pages destined to figure in 
 
 14 
 
158 THE PRIEST AN D 
 
 the nineteenth among the wisest and most beautiful treatises 
 upon the rights of man and the emancipation of nations. It 
 is Protestantism which in 1689 inspired the " Sighs of enslaved 
 France" by Jurieu, the best book of its day on the abuses of 
 an absolute monarchy. It is Protestantism which, an hundred 
 years earlier, in the Franco Gallia of Ilotman, established 
 with as much learning as boldness, the rights of a Slates- Gen- 
 eral, and the sovereignty of the people. We can well imagine 
 that works of this nature were little calculated to commend 
 the Reformation in the eyes of a Louis XIV. or of a Louis 
 XV. ; but at the present day, when the principles of 1789 are 
 more or less articles of faith for every people and every coim- 
 try, it would seem to bfe high time to render justice to those 
 who have proclaimed them one hundred or two hundred years 
 earlier. 
 
 XL. 
 
 CONFERENCE OF THE JESUITS AT THE ARCHIEPISCOPAL PALACE. 
 
 After having accompanied the minister to the house of 
 d'Alembert, let us now follow the missionary to the arch- 
 bishop of Paris. As we have said, it was to him, in spite of 
 the Duke de ChoiseuFs note, that Bridaine had decided to pre- 
 sent himself upon his arrival. 
 
 We have also said how the archbishop, without liking the 
 Jesuits, had become their protector. 
 
 Conferences frequently took place at his hbuse, between him- 
 self and the principal Jesuits of Paris. There were some- 
 times met together Father Leforestier, provincial of France, 
 Father Desmarfets, the king's confessor. Father de Sacy, for- 
 mer confessor to Madame de Pompadour, Father de Launay, 
 agent of the Canadian missions, Fathers de Montigny, de Neu- 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 159 
 
 ville, d'Huberlant, and some others beside, and the Duke de la 
 VaugLiyon their principal advocate at court. They discussed 
 the measures to be taken ; they arranged the notes to be sent 
 to the Father Centurioni, general of the order, to the Cardinals 
 and to the Pope Clement XIII. ; which, however, did not hinder 
 the provincial father from holding besides, unknown to the Arch- 
 bishop, his own private correspondence with the same personages. 
 When there was time, the other questions of the day were passed 
 in review, for there was not one of them which was not more or 
 less connected with that which more specially occupied them. 
 Politics, sciences, literature itself, all, for the last few months, 
 were concerned in the deadly duel between the Jesuits and 
 their age. 
 
 This evening, accordingly, while the encyclopedists met at 
 d'Alembert's, the Jesuits met at the archbishop's. The cabinet of 
 Monsieur de Beaumont had already received a number of them. 
 
 The archbishop was at his desk. He was reading a letter 
 which father Leforestier, who was standing beside him, ap- 
 peared to have just given him. 
 
 " It is unheard of," he muttered ; " one can scarcely believe 
 one's own eyes. And this piece is authentic i" 
 
 "Perfectly authentic, my lord. I have received it from 
 Eome this very day, in cypher, of course. I translated it my 
 self to present to your eminence. The cardinal Spinelli author- 
 ized me to show it." 
 
 "And the Pope?" 
 
 " The Pope is to be supposed not to have seen it." 
 
 " He is right," said the archbishop, refolding the paper. 
 
 " Pardon, my lord," resumed the father. " These dear broth- 
 ers do not yet know it. Permit them to read it while awaiting 
 our friends." 
 
 " Certainly. Ah ! here is Monsieur de Sacy himself. Come 
 
160 THE PKIEST AND 
 
 Monsieur de Sacy. You think you know a good deal about 
 Mme. de Pompadour. You do not know all." 
 
 " Is it some other affair," said the father, " in which I am 
 mixed up." 
 
 " It is the old affair, — ^but related after her fashion." 
 
 " I should like to hear — " 
 
 " And related — Come, — guess to whom." 
 
 " To another confessor, perhaps." 
 
 " No. Higher." 
 
 "To you, my lord f 
 
 " No. Higher." 
 
 " To the king 1" 
 
 " Higher, I tell you." 
 
 " I do not understand." 
 
 " And the pope 1" 
 
 " The pope ! Madame de Pojnpadour has written to the 
 pope ? To himself?" 
 
 " To himself Listen. 
 
 " ' Ever since the beginning of the year 1752, determined to 
 retain no feeling for the king, but that of gratitude and the 
 purest attachment, I petitioned his majesty to have the doc- 
 tors of the Sorbonne consulted, and to write to his confessor to 
 have others consulted, in order to find a method of allowing 
 me to remain near him, without exposing me to the suspicion 
 of a weakness which I no longer felt. The king had the doctors 
 consulted, and wrote to Father Perusseau, who required a total 
 separation. The king replied that he could not consent to this, 
 that I was necessary for the happiness of his life and the pros- 
 jicrity of his affairs ; that I was the only person who dared to tell 
 him the truth, so useful to kings. He persisted. The doctors 
 had made replies, according to which it would have been pos- 
 si])lc to make arrangements, if the Jesuits had agreed to them. 
 
THE HUQUENOT. 161 
 
 " ' Tilings remained, accordingly, in appearance, as they had 
 been before, until 1755. Long reflection upon the misfortunes 
 which had pursued me, led me to believe that happiness was 
 to be found in God alone. 1 addressed myself to Father de 
 Sacy, my confessor in m.y youth, as to a man deeply convinced 
 of this truth. He tried me in secret until the end of January, 
 1756. At his advice, I wrote a letter to my husband, but my 
 husband refused to see me. Still, according to his advice, for 
 the sake of propriety, and in order that my stay in court might 
 have a motive, I petitioned for a place in the queen's house- 
 hold. He had the staircase which led to my apartment 
 changed, and the king no longer enters save by the common 
 antechamber. Besides this he prescribed to me a rule of con- 
 duct, which I strictly followed. This change made a great 
 commotion in the city. Intriguers concerned themselves in it. 
 Father de Sacy was surrounded by them. He declared that 
 he should refuse me the sacraments as long as I remained at 
 court. I recalled to him the promises which he had exacted 
 from me, those which he had made himself, and the difference 
 which intrigue had produced in his feelings. He finished by tell- 
 ing me that the confessor of the late king had been excessively 
 ridiculed, when, after a pretended rupture with Madame de 
 Montespan, the Count de Toulouse came into the world. I 
 had nothing to reply to such a motive, and I saw him no more. 
 The abominable 5th of January* arrived, and was followed by 
 like intrigues. It was wished at all risks, to make me leave 
 tiie court. The king did his best to persuade Father Des- 
 marets to allow him to partake of the sacrament. The reply 
 was the same, and the king, who ardently desired to perform 
 his duties as a Christian, was deprived of them. 
 
 "■ In spite of the extreme patience which I had displayed for 
 * The attempt of Damiens. 
 14* 
 
162 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 eighteen months with Father de S.acy, my heart was none the 
 less adlicted at my situation. I spoke to a good man, in 
 whom I have confidence ; and he, in his turn, spoke of it to 
 one of his friends, an abbe, a man as learned as he is intelli- 
 gent. They both thought that my conduct was not deserving 
 of the pail' I was made to suffer. My new confessor — '" 
 
 " She has a confessor !" cried the Father de Sacy. " Does 
 she mention his name ?" 
 
 " No," said the archbishop ; " and I do not know who it can 
 be. To continue : ' My new confessor has put an end to this 
 injustice. He has permitted me to receive the sacraments ; 
 and although I am pained by the secrecy which must be ob- 
 served, in order to shield him from calumny, it is nevertheless 
 a great consolation to my soul. 
 
 " ' But the king is not able, like me, to commune in secret. 
 His majesty wishes, accordingly, to destroy the opposition 
 with which he meets in approaching the sacraments. The 
 king is troubled at the difficulties with which his confessor has 
 beset him on this point. He is persuaded that the pope, 
 instructed of the facts, will remove, by iiis advice and author- 
 ity, the obstacles which hinder him from performing a duty 
 sacred for himself, and edifying for his subjects.' "* 
 
 "This confessor puzzles me excessively," repeated Father 
 de Sacy. 
 
 " Have you remarked, my fathers," said the archbishop, 
 " the arrangement of this singular composition 1 For the last 
 ten years, all the efforts of the marquise have been to obtain 
 permission for the king to commune. She feels that this ex- 
 ternal reconciliation with the church would quiet the king's 
 'vjnscience for an indefinite length of time, and that henceforth 
 
 * This letter was found among the papers of the Duke de ChoiseuL 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 163 
 
 there would be no reason for her quitting the court. But she 
 would take care not to commence by that. To believe her, it 
 is she, she alone, who burns to accomplish her religious duties ; 
 it is she who, after many years of hope and patience, has at 
 length obtained permission to fulfil them. Gradually, she 
 grows bolder. Will the pope be more inflexible towards 
 the most Christian king, than a simple confessor has been 
 towards a poor sinner 1 How much art beneath this apparent 
 candor !" 
 
 " And yet,'' said the provincial Father, "in the hands of this 
 woman is our fate !" 
 
 '■' Certain rumors,'' said another, " were rife to-day — " 
 
 " True, perhaps, — and which will be false to-morrow. 
 Shaking her power only makes it stronger. She is never 
 bolder than when she has nearly fallen." 
 
 " It is because her stock of hatred has been renewed during 
 her danger." 
 
 " Her stock, so far as we are concerned, is always complete, 
 I fancy." 
 
 " That," said the archbishop, " is not so true as is generally 
 thought. Those who are brought into close contact with her 
 affirm that she has no hatred for you ; which does not hinder 
 her, be it understood, from being quite ready to sacrifice you 
 if she sees her advantage in it. These persons assure me that 
 she understands that Fathers Perusseau, Desmarets, de Sacy, 
 — all those, in fact, who have showed themselves severe, — 
 have only done their duty. She declares that she bears them 
 no ill-will. Is this true ? We may be allowed to think that 
 her grievances against them influence her, even without her 
 being aware of it, in her feelings towards your order ; but if 
 she sacrifices, or allows you to be sacrificed, it will be, I 
 imagine, from entirely different motives. Impress it upon 
 
164 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 yourselves well, in the first place, that she is only powerful in 
 all this matter, upon condition of being obedient to the move- 
 ment organized against you. She may, by encouraging it, do 
 you much harm ; by resisting it, she could not save you. The 
 philosophers render her homage because she serves them : let 
 her cease doing so and they would break her like a useless 
 tool. She knows this ; she has had proofs of it. Her first 
 motive, accordingly, is fear ; her second is vanity. Nothing, 
 according to her friends, is beyond her courage ; nothing, ac- 
 cording to her enemies, has yet justified the reputation which 
 has been bestowed upon her. She would like to prove to 
 the latter that they are wrong ; to the former, that they are 
 right. You are high enough to make your abasement a 
 glorious act." 
 
 " A sad consolation, my lord," said one of the Fathers. 
 " One thing is certain, that her intimate friends already com- 
 pliment her upon it. A certain verso — " 
 
 " Let us have it." 
 
 " ' In the book of fate, on the royal page, 
 Are writ these words, I 'm sure, — 
 Agnes from France the English chased, 
 The Jesuits — Pompadour.' 
 
 "A great many others have been made. But, my Fathers — " 
 
 "This confessor — this confessor," still repeated Father de 
 Sacy. 
 
 He was evidently less shocked at the scandal of the thing, 
 tlian at his having known nothing of it, and not being able to 
 get at the bottom of it. 
 
 "But, — this confessor — stay," said Father de Launay at 
 length. " I think I have it. It occurs to me that the marquise 
 has been occasioially to some village, I do not remember 
 
THE HUaUENOT. 165 
 
 which, in the diocese of Meaux, on the road to Paris. May 
 not this « jiifessor be the Abbe de Narniers ?" 
 
 " That is it !" cried the Fathers. 
 
 " And that explains, besides," said the archbishop, " why the 
 Abbo de Narniers is going to preach before the king." 
 
 XLI. 
 
 rATHEB. desmar4:ts. 
 
 " He will not preach, my lord," interrupted a priest who 
 was ushered in at this moment. 
 
 " Father Desmarets ! I thought you were at Versailles." 
 
 " I came from there, and I return again this evening. You 
 know the position of things ]" 
 
 " Certain rumors are afloat — " 
 
 " Well founded, my lord. To-morrow, perhaps this evening, 
 Madame de Pompadour will no longer be at the chateau. The 
 king sent for me. I had a long conversation with him. I 
 clearly and positively repeated my conditions. I showed him 
 that in supporting himself upon the pretended innocence of 
 his actual relations with his former mistress, he was trifling 
 with me, with himself, with everybody, and with God es- 
 pecially." 
 
 " Good !" said the archbishop, " good !" 
 
 " And he finished by yielding. To-morrow, if he keeps his 
 word, I am to confess him. In some days, if he continues to 
 observe the agreement, I permit him to commune." 
 
 " Good ! good !" repeated the archbishop. 
 
 Tlie good Fathers did not appear so perfectly satisfied : un- 
 easiness, at least, was visible beneath their satisfaction. 
 
 " It is a hazardous game," said one of them, at length. 
 
166 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " You may succeed — you also may not succeed. And then 
 with -what wc already have on our hands — " 
 
 Desmarets shook his head. 
 
 " My Fathers ! my Fathers !" he said, " the time of human 
 calculations is gone by. If I fail we shall be none the worse 
 for it ; if I triumph we shall be none the better. The mar- 
 quise and the duke may hasten our ruin ; but neither the duke, 
 nor she, nor the king, nor any one, can hinder it much longer. 
 Tlie king was friendly to us ; he is still. What has he done 
 for us 1 — what can he do ? Do you suppose us still at the 
 period when the king was the master ? No, no, — he has no 
 longer but to say, like Father La Tour, to whom the council- 
 lor-general,* his former pupil, wished to give some advice: 
 
 ' Venit sumiiia dies et ineluctabile tempus.' 
 
 Our line of conduct at this moment," continued the Father^ 
 " should be neither to resist, nor to bend. In bending, we 
 should dishonor ourselves. Let us be what we are, or let us 
 exist no longer. In resisting, we should be none the less 
 broken, and we should be broken forever. Let them say, let 
 them do what they will. If we are to perish, let us perish 
 martyrs. Tlie best means of reviviiifi one day, is foi us to 
 remain strangers to the struggles which are to retard or hasten 
 our ruin." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 POLICY OF THE JESUITS WHEN ATTACKED. 
 
 This was, in fact, the system which the order had adopted, 
 particularly in France. The provincial Father had forbidden 
 * Seguier. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 167 
 
 the pubUcatioii of anything. In presence of so niiiny violent 
 attacks, there must be absolute silence. Was it policy or 
 greatness of soul, calculation or piety 1 These two motives, 
 generally so mingled in all human actions, have never been 
 more so than in those of the Jesuits. This, in our opinion, is 
 the secret of their history ; this is the explanation of all the 
 love and all the hatred of which they have been the objects. 
 Love them, an 1 you will fill volumes with the great and noble 
 things they ha'v e done ; hate them, and you can fill quite as 
 many with the picture of their ambition, their intrigues, and 
 their loose or absurd instructions. When something is related 
 you of their devotedness, admire, and you will be just ; then 
 examine into it, criticize, and you will still be just. 
 
 Let us add, that we m.ay continue to be so, in praise and in 
 blame, that we are now speaking, and shall continue to speak, 
 unless notice of the contrary be given, of the Jesuits of former, 
 and not those of our times. In our opinion, the latter merit 
 neither the same sort of criticism, nor above all the same 
 praises. We seek vainly in them that devotedness, that glory 
 which plead the cause of their order a hundred years since. 
 If they themselves atfempt to shut the mouths of their adver- 
 saries, it is nearly always by appeals to their ancient glory, to 
 their missionaries, to their scholars, their schools, their dis- 
 coveries of other days. All the good that they still do, they 
 know that others do as well, and would do without them. 
 They see that good itself, when it comes from them, has not 
 the efl^ects which it would have coming from other sources ; 
 they feel that the antipathy, just or otherwise, of which they 
 are the objects, does more harm to their church, than all their 
 labors can do of good. It is for this that they take refuge in 
 the past, when they were really the first and most useful ser- 
 vaixts of the Roman unity, while at the present time, they 
 
168 THE PEIEST AND 
 
 feel that thoy are like troops who are more burdensome than 
 useful, whom their commanders know not how to disband, — 
 they feci that they are superfluous, not only in the age, but in 
 the church. While giving themselves out, from long habit, as 
 the preceptors of the human race, they feel the necessity of 
 asking permission to be so. 
 
 We shall return to this subject. 
 
 Their immovability, at a time when the attacks against them 
 were redoubled, was accordingly, more or less one of the ef- 
 fects of this continual mingling of religious feeling and earthly 
 views. They were silent because it appeared to them noble, 
 as Christians, to bow their heads beneath oppression ; they were 
 silent also, — perhaps we should say especially, — because they 
 no longer hoped to gain anything by speaking, and because the 
 greatest injury which at this juncture they were able to inflict 
 upon their enemies, was to put upon them all the odiimi of 
 being the persecutors. 
 
 But neither of these motives was of a nature to be at that 
 time comprehended. The age was neither pious enough to 
 imagine men keeping silence from resignation, nor impartial 
 enough to understand that their silence nvas to be in the end 
 an argument against their judges. From it was simply con- 
 cluded, — and it is certain that their history authorized this dis- 
 trust, — that if they were silent in public they were only the 
 more active in secret. Calculations were made with a sort of 
 terror, in regard to what they could not fail to be plotting in 
 the dark. In marching on to the assault, none dodbtcd but 
 what they were walking upon an undermined soil, and this feel- 
 ing tended to augment the ardor of some, the fear of others, 
 and the hatred of all. 
 
 It appears, notwithstanding, that the watchword was relig- 
 iously enough obeyed. We cannot know what passed in the 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 169 
 
 shadow of the confessional, and we feel besides, that the Jesuits 
 were at perfect liberty to make recruits wherever they could ; 
 but as to intrigues, in the proper sense of the word, we cannot 
 accuse them of any, from the moment when they perceived 
 themselves seriously threatened. Besides, what would they 
 have hoped from these? Everything was brought to light. 
 They had enemies everywhere, they were everywhere watched. 
 Simple prudence, as well as the motives of which we have 
 spoken, commanded them to remain spectators. Prosperity 
 degraded them ; they wished to be grand in their fall. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 LETTER FROM LAURENT KAULBN. 
 
 " You are in fact," resumed the archbishop, " in a very crit- 
 ical and solemn situation. A noble part is offered you ; so 
 noble, my fathers, that what I ask for you from God is, not 
 the courage to accept it, for that you will have, but the power 
 to accept it without pride. In this respect, your brethren of 
 Portugal set you a beautiful example. You will assuredly, in 
 France, not be called upon to submit to such treatment as that 
 by which they are crushed. It will in consequence be easier 
 for you to be courageous, easier to be martyrs. Take care ! 
 Take care! A martyr's pride is like any other pride; and I 
 need not teach you how God detests pride. It is beautiful to 
 know how to suffer, but -it is beautiful only ; it is more than 
 beautiful to suffer without pride, — it is Christian. Listen to 
 what is written from the horrors of a dungeon, by one of 
 these men upon whom the Marquis de Pombul has exhausted 
 his despotism. It is Father Kaulen writing to the provincial 
 of the Bas-Ehin. 
 
 15 
 
170 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 Seized by soldiers, who sword in hand, conducted 
 
 me to a fort, I was thrown into a dungeon in which the rats 
 disputed with me for my very food, for the darkness prevented 
 my driving them away. We were twenty. The first few 
 days we were treated with some attention ; afterwards, scarce 
 enough was given us to hinder our dying of hunger. Our 
 breviaries were taken from us ; they even wished to take away 
 our crucifixes one day. One of us could not endure their vio- 
 lence ; he died 
 
 " ' Shortly after we were transferred to the prisons of Lis- 
 bon, and from thence to the fort of St. Julien upon the sea 
 shore. In this fort, our prison is yet more horrible than the 
 other. It is a subterranean dungeon, obscure, infected, into 
 which light is admitted only by an aperture three hands in 
 height, and three fingers wide. They give us a little oil for 
 a lamp, half a pound of bread, and water often tainted. The 
 damp trickles down the walls. " All grows putrid here," said 
 the governor of the fort one day ; " it is only the Jesuits who 
 keep." 
 
 " ' And in fact, we appear to be kept by a miracle, in order 
 to sufier for the sake of Christ. And yet some die from time 
 to time. We envj- their lot, not because they are at the end 
 of their labors, but because thoy have obtained the palm. 
 
 " ' Tliose of our Fathers who were at Macao, of whom some 
 have already with coiu'age endured torments and prison among 
 the infidels, have also been brought hither. It has been more, 
 it seems, in accordance with God's will for them to suffer in 
 this country, without having deserved it, than to die for their 
 faith among the idolators. His will be done. 
 
 " ' We have only to declare that we abjure the society, in 
 order to be free. This has been told us from the beginning ; 
 it is repeated to us every day, with threats of inci easing our 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 171 
 
 tortures. Thanks he to God, none have yet yielded, nor will 
 yield, I hope.* 
 
 " ' Pray for us dear brethren, but not as for men who are to 
 be pitied. We feel that God is with us. We would not 
 change places with you. 
 
 "'Laurent Kaulen, captive for Jesus Christ.^" 
 
 " Pray for him !" cried Father de Lannay. " It is he that 
 should pray for us. A martyr — a saint." 
 
 " Yes," cried the Father de Sacy, " he will one day be one 
 of the patron saints of our society !" 
 
 The archbishop slightly shrugged his shoulders, "Incura- 
 ble !" he murmured. 
 
 The good Fathers did not admire. They calculated the 
 lustre and profit which would be gained them by another saint. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 FATHER BRIDAINe's CENSURE. 
 
 Whilst they were looking at the letter, the door opened, and 
 was shut again immediately. The movement had been heard 
 of a man drawing back hastily, and a voice saying, " It is a 
 mistake." 
 
 " What is it 1" asked the prelate. 
 
 " But, my lord," said one of the Fathers, " I thought I saw 
 • — I do not know — Father Bridaine." 
 
 It was he. Entering the house with the air of a man who 
 knows himself to be expected, he had been shown directly to 
 the cabinet of the archbishop. 
 
 * And in fact none of them yielded. Six years afterwards the cells 
 of St. JulieQ still imprisoned an hundred of them. 
 
172 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Father Bridaine !" was the exclamation. 
 
 The surprise, to judge ftom their air, was none of the most 
 agreeable. Monsieur de Beaumont appeared to reflect for an 
 instant ; then he went and opened the door. 
 
 " Come in," he said, " come in, my Father. Mistake or not, 
 you are welcome." 
 
 " My lord, this costume — " 
 
 He showed his leathern gaiters. His cassock was whitened 
 with dust. 
 
 " This costume !" said the archbishop. " Well, my Father, 
 it is yours. The apostle of our country should be seen as he 
 is. — 
 
 ' Sunt quos eurriculo pulverem olympicum 
 Collegiese juvat' — 
 
 as our Horace has it. Is. not your dust worth as much as 
 this other ?" 
 
 " My lord—" 
 
 " But you are perhaps very much fatigued — "' 
 
 " No, my lord. I only came from ^Slcaux, and I have taken 
 the whole day to it." 
 
 " Sit down." 
 
 And the archbishop conducting him to a seat, said in a low 
 tone: 
 
 " You received my note ?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " You have seen no one ?" 
 
 " No one. But the duke wrote to mc also. He wished to 
 sec me first." 
 
 « Ah !" 
 
 " My Fathers," resumed the archbishop aloud, " since acci- 
 dent has causeiJ Father Bridaine to meet you here, I will not 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 173 
 
 conceal from you, that it is partly at my request that he has- 
 come to Paris. His linowledge, his experience, his personal 
 authority — " 
 
 " My lord deceives himself, I think, my Fathers, in regard to 
 the use I may be to you. I should have, it is true, many 
 things to say to you ; but these — " 
 
 " Go on," said the archbishop. 
 
 " It would be much easier, my Fathers, to tell you these 
 things, if 1 saw you successful and powerful, than in presence 
 of the evils which threaten you. Many of you, besides, know 
 already what I think and what I have always thought. Father 
 Leforestier, Father de Sacy, Father — " 
 
 As he sought while speaking, other faces known to him, his 
 eyes fell upon one, the sight of which appeared to impress him 
 painfully. 
 
 " — Father Charnay," he continued. 
 
 It was, in fact, he of whose exploits in the Cevennes we have 
 heard. Bridaine named one or two besides, repeating that 
 they had already had occasion to know his whole opinion on 
 the subject of their order. 
 
 " But since then," said the archbishop, " the face of things 
 has changed. Portugal has given a signal which may be re- 
 peated from one end of Europe to the other. The cause of 
 the society is compromised in Spain, in France, even in Italy, 
 perhaps at Rome, for they will finish, without doubt, by de 
 manding the abolition of the order, and the Holy See might 
 not be in a condition to refuse it. Never has a more tremen 
 dous storm — " 
 
 " My lord," said the missionary, " this is an important pro 
 cess, which may last for centuries in this world, and will never 
 be closed save at the judgment bar of God. It is before God, 
 accordingly, rather than before man, and accordintr ^" the nrdi 
 
 15* 
 
.74 THE PEIEST AND 
 
 nary rules of human justice, that you should judge yourselves, 
 you, my Fathers, and your order. 
 
 " You pass in review the accusations, the calumnies, which 
 are spread abroad against you, you cry out against their injus- 
 tice, prejudice, and cruelty. Humanly speaking, you are a 
 hundred times right. Among the grievances which are 
 brought up, there are but very few which are not imaginary, 
 and of which an impartial Catholic could seriously accuse you. 
 And he would still be very far from seeing enough in those to 
 justify the dissolution of an order, and the proscription of 
 fifteen or twenty thousand ecclesiastics. 
 
 " But if we have the right to call iniquitous, humanly speak- 
 ing, every punishment disproportioned to an offence, still 
 more any punishment based upon false or even exaggerated 
 accusations, God, who looks upon things from on high, may 
 perceive justice where we discern nothing but injustice. When 
 He is represented to us in the Scripture, as chastening a people 
 by the hand of a conqueror, this people is certainly imiocent 
 in relation to those who overthrow it. The instrument of the 
 chastisement is accordingly unjust ; the chastisement itself is 
 not so. 
 
 " God forbid, my fathers, that I should wish to apply to 
 your present situation so severe and so absolute a reflection. 
 All that I wish to say is, that the evident injustice of the 
 condemnation, with which all are preparing to strike you, 
 either here or elsewhere, ought not to be sufficient to prove to 
 yourselves your innocence. Because the impious hate you, 
 you cannot logically conclude that God loves you ; it would 
 not be the first time, I repeat, that He would have remitted to 
 the wicked the execution of his wise decrees. I do not judge 
 you ; I only allow myself to ind'.cate what you in your judg- 
 ment should not lose sight of." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 175 
 
 XLV. 
 
 PLAIK SPEAKINO. 
 
 Accustomed only to hear ardent apologies or bitter abuse, 
 the Fathers listened in respectful surprise to this appeal to 
 higher ideas. They felt themselves put upon ground where 
 they could mthout anger hear themselves criticised, and with 
 out pride commended. They were all attention, but Bridaine 
 had done. 
 
 " Go on," said the archbishop. 
 
 " No, my lord, no details. I have said that I left the cause 
 to God, and to the conscience of our Fathers. I have no judg- 
 ment to pronounce." 
 
 " And if we ourselves beg you to do so V said Father do 
 Lannay. 
 
 " Yes, we ourselves, — " said the others. 
 
 " If you desire me 1 — Well, God be my aid ! Here is my 
 whole opinion. 
 
 " There are two things, in the first place, which you will 
 have the goodness not to forget, for I should be obliged to re- 
 peat them before and after each of my observations. 
 
 " The first is, that I render full justice to what you have 
 done for the good and the honor of religion. No one admires 
 more than myself your missionaries and your scholars. There 
 have been, and there are among you, men, whose zeal, faith, 
 and enlightenment, I should be rejoiced to possess. 
 
 " The second is, that no tie, no sympathy attaches me to 
 your enemies. I share in none of the prejudices which have 
 risen up against you, and as to the grievances in detail which 
 I have considered well founded, I have always in my mind 
 
no THE PRIEST AND 
 
 kept them distinct from the exaggerations and falsehoods which 
 have been mingled with them. 
 
 " This settk-d. I a-^k myself -whether there are not other 
 gi-ievances, difficult to designate, but nevertheless tangible 
 enough to disturb in time the most upright consciences, and to 
 plead against you in the sight of God. 
 
 " God, says the Scripture, is a jealous God. ' He will have 
 nc other gods before Him.' It is His first commandment. 
 
 " Now when we have to preach on this subject, we never 
 fail to say, and with entire justice, that there are many ways of 
 being idolatrous ; that money for the miser, glory for the am- 
 bitious man, pleasure for one, power for another, are in reality 
 •gods before God.'' 
 
 " Well, your God is your society. It is not so, certainly, 
 m the sense that you deny God for it ; but if you serve God 
 it is more for the sake of your society than for God's sake. 
 There were of old temples dedicated to the Roman people, 
 populo Romano ; if you were not Christians, if your faith per- 
 mitted you to build to more than one God, the society of Jesus 
 would have an altar beside that of Jesus, as the people of Mars 
 built one to itself by the side of the one to Mars. One of 3'our 
 Fathers, whom I was called upon to attend upon his death-bed, 
 was so struck with this idea, that it embittorod his last moments. 
 And yet it was not without difficulty that I had brought him 
 to perceive it. I had found the society and God so mingled, 
 so identified in his heart, that he was a long time without even 
 understanding me ; but his conscience once alarmed, he was so 
 wretched that he despaired of his salvation, and I knew not 
 how to close the wound I had made. He could not recall one 
 single one of his actions, — and yet his career had been very 
 long, and very full, — without perceiving with terror, that this 
 action had been performed as much, often more for the society, 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 177 
 
 than for God, for the earth than for heaven. He saw the Su- 
 preme Judge take away all that was not for holy ends, and he 
 trembled lest after this partition notliing, or almost nothing, 
 would remain. 
 
 " This partition which God will surely make, make it now, 
 miy Fathers, if not for each one of you, at least, since we are 
 speaking of your society, for her and her works. Behold aer 
 referring all to herself, her interests, spiritual or not, her power, 
 her glory ; behold her presenting herself to her members as 
 their mother, their country, their church, their God, their all. 
 And tell me, whether that, that alone does not deserve the in- 
 dignation of Him who will have ' no other gods before Him !' 
 
 " From this fundamental vice proceed all those which may 
 have contributed to take from you His love, and, at the same 
 time, the respect and affection of men. Your institution has 
 served religion, but less as a subordinate executing the orders 
 of his master, than as a minister reigning in the name of an in- 
 dolent prince, and giving himself, if not all the honors, at least 
 all the rights of the highest*ipremacy. It is not for me to ex- 
 amine if you have always made good use of these rights. I take 
 only the spirit ; I say, that in this point of view, if you had 
 only ordered excellent things to be done in the name of re- 
 ligion, still there would be usurpation on your part. You 
 have not reigned in God's name, but in God's place. What, 
 accordingly, has resulted? That the divinest laws promul- 
 gated by you, have in the eyes of many persons become 
 human, arbitrary, humiliating commandments. These persons 
 have doubtless been wrong to give themselves up to this im- 
 pression. They should have examined thoroughly ; they would 
 have found, I will not say always, but almost always, God's 
 law beneath yours. But in the meantime, externally, it was 
 with yours, and yours alone, that they found themselves 
 
178 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 brought into contact ; it was to your will, to your yoke that 
 they found themselves bowed. This idea, made use of by 
 some, and greedily received by all those upon whom the yoke 
 of religion weighed heavily, — this idea has powerfully con- 
 tributed to shake the empire of religion. God, if I dare speak 
 thus, sees himself dethroned with you, like those sovereigns 
 who fall victims to the hatred sworn against their ministers. 
 This universal revolt against faith, morals, and all that is most 
 h Ay, you it is who in many respects, have provoked it. 
 
 " I said ' morals,' and there might be more than one ob- 
 servation made upon this subject. I shall not go to search in 
 your books to see if it be correct or not to say that you 
 authorize lying, theft, adultery. I believe on the one hand, 
 that you have had more than one unscrupulous doctor, whose 
 maxims, in the common course of life, would strangely modify 
 all that has until now been designated as vice or virtue ; I be- 
 lieve, on the other, that it would be neither reasonable nor 
 just to present these aberrations as 3"our habitual and constant 
 rules. The case, in this form, mii*r give room to very differ- 
 ent opinions ; but it may be reduced to one simple observation, 
 in regard to which, I think all must agree. Whether or not 
 you may be accused of corrupting morality, you have degraded 
 it ; whether or not you have lost sight of the principles upon 
 which Jesus Christ laid its foundations, you have drowned 
 them in the infuiite detail of your precepts. By dint of an- 
 alyzing virtues, and above all vices, you have established be- 
 tween good and bad, a multitude of shades, of which I know 
 many exist in the human heart, but which theoretically pre- 
 sented, cannot fail to deprive moral laws of that absolute and 
 evidently imperative character which they have in the con- 
 science and in the gospel. There, man appears to me bound to 
 his duty, if I may thus speak, by two or three cords at most. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. \ 19 
 
 tut Strong and properly stretched, holding on the one hand to 
 what is most solid without him, and on the other to what is 
 most profound and vital within. You have not cut these cords, 
 but you have untwisted them, in order to take one by one all 
 the fibres of which they were composed, and it is with these 
 fibres, infinitely multiplied, that you have pretended to bring 
 man to virtue and to God. From thence proceed two contrai-y 
 but equally unhappy results. If man submit he is straight- 
 ened in all his movements ; he goes to heaven, but like a 
 mummy enwrapped in bandages. If he resist, the fibres 
 break and nothing binds him any longer to faith nor morality. 
 Another pomt of view, consequently, under which the present 
 demoralization is in part your work. You have substituted 
 petty precepts for great principles ; a heap of sand for a dyke 
 of rock. The waves have come, the sand has been swept 
 away. 
 
 " If, then, as all predict, as you yourselves appear no longer 
 to doubt, — if, I say, you are the first to be submerged in this 
 tempest, what counsel can I give you, dear brethren, if it be 
 not to accept this trial in a Christian spirit, and to make every 
 effort to draw good results from it ? God knows, as we know, 
 and better than we do, that demoralization will go on increas- 
 ing; He knows that in allowing your overthrow He only 
 opens another door to the desecration of His temple. On the 
 part of a man, a prince, it would be folly to leave his citadel 
 defenceless in order to punish some of the soldiers who guard 
 it ; but God in certain moments stays not at details. When 
 we count by days, He counts by centuries. If He overthrows, 
 or allows to be overthrown. He has all eternity in which to 
 re-build. What matter to Him if His temple be defended by 
 one or another 1 Let us cease, pygmies as we are — let us 
 cease to imagine to ourselves that we are necessary to Him. 
 
180 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 He has but to vfiJl, in order to have soldiers. Troni the 
 stones themselves,' said Jesus Christ, ' He am raise up children 
 to Abraham.* And if the sanctuary be a miiiient invaded, — 
 once more, what matters it to Him 1 He knows that He 
 could scatter the impious with a breath. He wished to chas- 
 tise the age, and behold He has commenced with you !" 
 
 XLVl. 
 
 JESUIT MORALITY. 
 
 When Bridaine ceased, there was a long silence. Some of 
 his hearers seemed but little to relish his words ; some others 
 seemed to be making an effort to understand them. No one, 
 however, had inteiTupted him ; their consciences secretly 
 agreed with him. If he had been mistaken in some points, 
 there still remained three great reproaches which they did not 
 dream of refuting : 
 
 They had deified their society by a sort of worship ; 
 
 They had put themselves in the sight of men, in the pla<» 
 of God ; 
 
 They had by dint of detailing its laws deprived morality 
 of all grandeur and ^-igor. 
 
 Of these, no enlightened, sincere, pious Catholic if he reflect- 
 ed, could refrain from accusing the Jesuits. Bridaine had 
 summed up the opinion of this class, not very numerous, it is 
 true, but truly honorable, which has always experienced for 
 them from Christian motives, the same aversion as others 
 from impiety. The position of these Catholics is necessarily 
 very delicate. When thoy see so many bad passions in play 
 against the Jesuits, their conscience tells them to take the 
 defence ; and scarcely have they opened their lips before they 
 
THE HUaUBNOT. 181 
 
 are accused of being sold to them. The Jesuits, on their side, 
 very unscrupulously take possession of whoever takes up, or 
 appears to take up their defence. Say one word in their 
 favor, and you behold yourself inscribed in large characters, 
 in the long catalogue of their apologists; but endeavor to 
 return to this word, and to explain how you did not mean to 
 absolve them from all blame, you find yourself rejected with 
 disdain, and confounded in their eyes with the bitterest of 
 their adversaries. 
 
 And this Bridaine had often experienced. In recalling the 
 fact that several of the Jesuits assembled at the archbishop's 
 already knew his opinion in regard to their order, he might 
 have related the annoyances which his frankness had often cost 
 him ; and when he resigned himself, at their request, to tell 
 them once more what he thought of their situation, he well 
 knew to what he exposed himself From a natural conse- 
 quence of the first of the three faults mentioned, the troubling 
 a Jesuit in the worship he has vowed to his order, is wounding 
 him in his dearest feelings ; it is in his eyes what to a simple 
 believer would be criticisms of God himself. 
 
 And yet if charity and prudence had permitted him to say 
 all ; i^ above all, as a Catholic and priest he had not been 
 obliged on more than one point to repress the impulse of his 
 indignant conscience, what could he not have added ! 
 
 He could have shown that this worship given by them to 
 their order had become for many, their onlv religion. 
 
 He could have depicted this empire which they exercised in 
 the name of God, adopting, wherever it was possible, the form 
 of the boldest, most complete, most brutal despotism. 
 
 A.nd, finally, those moralists whom he had only blamed as 
 weakening moral laws, by dint of analyzing them, he could 
 have shown them searching out vice in its most ignoble 
 
 16 
 
182 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 abysses, and publishing — always Ad tnajorem Dei gloriam* — 
 books which one dares not mention. 
 
 And ho could repeat, at the present day, that which he coul A 
 have said in 1760 ; he could even say it on many points with 
 still more justice, and that not only of the Jesuits, but of a 
 great majority of the clergy. 
 
 The Jesuits fell ; the Jesuits have risen again. Such as 
 they were, they are still, — less, as we have said, less the bril 
 liant talent, the solid learning, and the varnish of good tasta 
 with which they covered their boldness and their errors. 
 Never have they more openly endeavored to absorb all that 
 is for them, to crush all that is against them. Their means 
 alone have changed. Of old, they reigned through the king ; 
 now, thoy reign through the people. They commanded in the 
 name of despotism ; now, in the name of liberty. All hostile 
 clamor was stifled by the gag ; now, ^y crying out louder than 
 those who clamor. So long as they could use the stake and 
 the scaffold, they did so ; now that they can do so no longer, 
 they range themselves on the side of tolerance, ready to re- 
 commence as soon as they can. But one thing which has not 
 changed, which has continued its shameful and fatal march 
 through all their revolutions, is their old propensity for rum- 
 maging in the foulest folds of the human heart. They, who 
 make celibacy an absolute, indispensable condition of sacerdotal 
 purity, pass their lives in meditating upon all that celibacy 
 was primitively destined, one would think, to banish from the 
 imagination and the heart! All the turpitudes which the 
 generality of the impure cull, in passing through the vast field 
 of vice, they analyze, they label ; they give names to what had 
 no name, even in the orgies of imperial Rome, and this hideous 
 
 * Tlieir usual device. They placed it (A. D. M. 6. j on the title- 
 pages of oil their works. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 183 
 
 science continues to perfect itself fi-om day to day. Even 
 those whom you may know to be the purest, the holiest in 
 their conduct, the most seriously enemies of evil, you may be 
 sure that a debauchee has nothing to teach them, and has not 
 fed more than they have upon impure ideas and meditations. 
 
 But why this indignation 1 Listen to them. The physician 
 of the body is not infected by the ulcers which he sees. Why, 
 then, should the physician of souls, the confessor, be more so 
 by the turpitudes which he analyzes 1 It is, after all, for the 
 salvation of his brethren that he gives himself up to these 
 revolting studies ! And thus it is that they succeed in making 
 themselves a conscience, which has nothing, or scarcely any- 
 thing, in common with that which good people have called by 
 this name for nearly six thousand years. Fed upon these 
 impurities, the heart has gradually lost, even while remaining 
 pure, all the candor of innocence. After having unscrupulously 
 explored this portion of the kingdom of evil, they become less 
 scrupulous about venturing into others. As they have trifled 
 with impurity, they will trifle with lying, with fraud. Not 
 only will they multiply, in theory, those shades which facilitate 
 the passage from good to evil, from the true to the false, but 
 they will violate themselves, almost without knowing it, the 
 commonest rules of honesty. They will profess, sometimes 
 openly in their books, sometimes more quietly in the con- 
 fessional, sometimes intentionally, sometimes without even 
 suspecting it, but always,' everywhere, in everything, that the 
 means are justified by the end. They will calumniate men 
 and things ; they will cut short quotations ; they will falsify 
 history ; they will impudently deny things which the most 
 zealous defenders of Catholicism have until then admitted ; 
 they will laugh at the most formal and crushing contradictions, 
 provided they do not reach the ears of those whom they have 
 
184 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 deceived. They will have, for educated people, a cool, reason 
 ed, reasonable Catholicism, — a vague philosophy, of which the 
 uifidels themselves would accept three-fourths; — and, at the 
 same time, for the unlearned, a religion, a worship rather, — f(.ir 
 there is question but of forms, — a worship entirely material, 
 au incoherent collection of words and observances. For the 
 first, grand sermons on morality ; for the second, legends, 
 miraculous medals. Thus they will lie to those, in giving 
 them as Catholicism that whJcli neither councils nor popes 
 have ever recognized as such ; to the othei-s, in imposing on 
 them, under the name of Christianity, all that a thousand years 
 of decadence has added of grossness to Christianity. 
 But to return to the Jesuits and Bridaine. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 STARTLING PROPOSAL. 
 
 The situation was becoming embarrassing ; Monsieur de 
 Beaumont put an end to it by rising. Archbishop as he was, 
 or rather because he was archbishop, he had appearances to 
 preserve. When he lectured the Jesuits, which sometimes 
 happened, he did so in general terms ; and though he might 
 appi'ove of all that he had just heard, he did not wish to be 
 forced distinctly to pronounce his approbation. 
 
 They conversed a few moments as they stood, but on indif- 
 ferent subjects. Finally, the archbishop and Bridaine remained 
 alone. 
 
 '■ Did I go too far ]" asked Bridaine. 
 
 "No indeed, I can assure you. But too much or too little, 
 it caimot make much di'iTereuco. They will not heed. 'Those 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 185 
 
 wTinm JiipitPT wishfis to destroy, he first blinds,' said the 
 ancients." 
 
 " At any rate, they cannot fancy that I have any interest in 
 blaming them," 
 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 And M. de Beaumont smiled, Bridaine looked at him with 
 astotiishment. 
 
 "T do not understand you. my lord." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" rgpcated the archbishop. " In a few 
 days, perhaps to-raorrow, they will fancy they have proof that 
 you are theii" rj)ost mortal enemy." 
 
 "Proo^! What proof?" 
 
 " Do you know why the Duke de Choiseul was in such 
 haste to see you ?" 
 
 " No indeed." 
 
 " He wishes to propose to you the situation — well ! what 
 r.ow 1 What is the matter ?" 
 
 Rc?^"cely seated in the arm-chair which the archbishop had 
 pre3F.r'>,d him, Bridaine had sprung up suddenly, breathless 
 and e^rited ; then he stood immovable, his gaze fixed, his arms 
 half mis* .'J to heaven. Finally, as if he had entirely forgotten 
 where he was, he began to stride up and down the room, with 
 trismbli'ig lips, but the same stony gaze. 
 
 He had guessed. 
 
 " Confes; DT to the king !" he murmured. " I ! Confessor 
 to the king 1 Good God !" 
 
 For at this period, no one had a head so strong, or a heart 
 so pure, — no, not even a Bridaine, nor a saint, — as to be able 
 to look with indifference upon the distinction conferred by this 
 title. To see the king of France at his feet! — to be able, to 
 say, " My son," to the eldest son of the church ! — to have a 
 knowledge of his most secret thoughts ! — was not this, if not 
 
 16* 
 
186 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 in the brilliancy, at least in the reality of icb power, the first 
 ecclesiastical post in the kingdom ? 
 
 It is true that since Louis XV. had allovi'ed lils passions to 
 rule him without restraint, this situation had Lecome a sad 
 sinecure. For the last few years, the connection between 
 Father Desmareis and his. inoEt august and hardened penitent 
 had been confined to a few insignificant conversations, wliich, 
 moreover, generally canic to ftn aiu-upt termination, because 
 the king obstiriately refused to promise anj essential amend- 
 ment. But it might happen any day that the confessor of the 
 king might find himself called upon to exercise to its full 
 extent this momentarily suspended power. But even as it 
 now was, the Jesuits attached immense importan.s t-j it. 
 Louis XV., even during the worst of his immoralitici itiil 
 retained the religious instincts of his youth. It was well 
 kno^vn tkit he was seriously annoyed at finding himself at war 
 with the church. Tliis annoyance, as yet powerless agiiinsr, ,'i.d 
 vices, might cause him suddenly to throw himsii'lf ii!t>.. i.he 
 arms of his religion, — that is, of his confessor, — for to Iv^in ihe 
 highest hope, the most elevated object of religion, \'.;\;-. thd 
 reconciling himself to the church by partaking of thv. sacr.^ 
 ments. The longer he struggled, the more reason was there 
 to think that if he were once conquered, he would give himself 
 lip body and soul to his conqueror. 
 
 Bridaine had never made this calculation ; and if he had 
 ever done so, it would not have been on his own account ; for 
 there was probably not a priest in France who had Icss 
 dreamed of becoming the king's confessor than himself But 
 the prospect was none the less brilliant, particularly under 
 such circumstances. This post now about to be offered to 
 him, had nearly always been in the hands of the Jesuits. In 
 this change of persons would be effected a whole revolution : 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 187 
 
 the new confessor would be forced to take a part, and a very 
 prominent one, in the struggle going on between the parlia- 
 naont and the society of Jesuits. Accordingly Bridaino ex- 
 perienced an exceedingly confused liuxture of joy and vexation, 
 confidence and terror. 
 
 " Yes," resumed the archbishop, at length perceiving that he 
 had become more composed, " the duke de Choiseul intends 
 to have Desmaret's situation given you. Until now there are 
 but three or four persons in the secret, and Desmarets is not 
 one of these. Monsieur de Choiseul does not know that I am 
 aware of it." 
 
 "Eat <rtiat is his object?" 
 
 " It is this : he wanted a man who was known to be the 
 adversary, but not the enemy of the Jesuits ; for the king 
 would never consent to have a confessor who had shown bit- 
 terness against them. He wanted, moreover, a priest tried by 
 long labors, the object of general consideration; in a word, one 
 worthy in the eyes of all parties of the eminent post which 
 he must occupy. He considers himself as having found this 
 priest — " 
 
 " My lord—" 
 
 " and he is not mistaken." 
 
 " But," said Bridaine, " would not the sole fact of my pres- 
 ence at court make me the auxiliary of those who summor 
 ine thither from hatred of the Jesuits, or of religion, which foi 
 many is the same thing ]" 
 
 " I have no doubt that this is their intention. It is even 
 very probable that one of the reasons for selecting you is that 
 vou are unaccustomtid to court life ; and thus they hoped to 
 fmd you a tolerably manageable instrument, since you would 
 suspect no nanagement. Ought you to refuse on tliat account ? 
 I think not. It depends upon yourself alone promptly to baffle 
 
188 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 all the evil designs in which you may already he entangled. 
 I'x: independent, he yourself; you can only gain by it. The 
 king must have all confidence in you. upon seeing you the 
 enemy of all plotters, oveu of those who made you known to 
 him." 
 
 "Confidence, perhaps; hut his immoralities'? You must 
 know well that I could never i.-ouseiit to remain their passive 
 spectator. Either the marquise must leave, or I myself will — " 
 
 "The marquise? What! do you not knovr? She ia in 
 disgi'ace." 
 
 "Since when?" 
 
 " A very short time ; but Desmarets told us. Courage, my 
 Father 1 You see that the way is open. Courage ! Perhaps 
 you are summoned to save France." 
 
 Bridaine shook his head. 
 
 " To save France, my lord 1 The days of miracW are past. 
 If I sa\e the king it will be wonderful. Shall I oe jAlvle to do 
 sol God alone knows. Besides, I am not yet Ih-re. The 
 duke is not going to nominate me without fixing lu^ conditions. 
 "Will they be such as I can accept ]" 
 
 " Here they are, perhaps," said the archbishop, handing him 
 a note just brought in by a valet. 
 
 " From the duke !" he cried. " Let us see. 
 
 "'Father Bridaine will have the goodness to get into the 
 carriage which I have the honor to send for him, and which 
 will conduct him to my hotel. I await him. 
 
 "'Choiseul.'" 
 
 " He knows then that I am here V resumed Bridaine. 
 
 " Spies are not wanting in Paris. You must have been fol- 
 lowed. So much the better after all. Since you have a treaty 
 to make with him, here is the foundation laid." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 189 
 
 "How so]" 
 
 " Ho wrote you word to see no one before you went to him ; 
 y ou obeyed by coming here. It was the best way of letting 
 him know that you do not intend to be at his orders." 
 
 " The note is consequently somewhat laconic." 
 
 " Yes ; a little lilce a letlre de cachet. Here you are almost 
 in disgrace before you have come into favor, my dear Father. 
 But do not be uneasy. They have need of you. In the mean- 
 time you are forwarned ; that was all I wished. We will talk 
 more of it another time, unless indeed you should wish to 
 carry out the rebellion, and not go to see him until to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " I have half a mind — " 
 
 " No. All things considered, no bravado. For a man like 
 him, it is a great deal you may be sure, to have sent for you. 
 Go to him." 
 
 " Your benediction, my lord, upon my arrival." 
 
 " Take it, my Father, and perhaps your arrival will be a 
 blessing to us." 
 
 " We will pray for it, my lord, but let us hope nothing." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 PETTY MOTIVES FOR GKEAT CHANGES. 
 
 One must have lived at the court of Louis XIV. or Louis 
 XV., to be able fully to appreciate how the importance of at 
 fairs varied according to the private interests staked, or the 
 people concerned in them, or the turn which the most insig- 
 nificant details took, or seemed to take. To the people, there 
 is no more humiliating characteristic of an absolute govern- 
 ment than that they are forced to perceive their highest inter- 
 
190 1HE PRIEST AND 
 
 ests linked to the fate of these petty things ; and that they 
 must consider themselves fortunate if there is at least equality 
 of interest, — if these petty things do not in high places alone 
 attract attention. 
 
 This fact is never more prominent than during periods of 
 decline. In this universal belittling of all minds, great ques- 
 tions only become important in becoming, as it were, belittled. 
 In order that the government should concern itself about them, 
 it was necessary that they should become mixed up with all 
 kinds of petty interests, — necessary that they should pass from 
 principles to details, from things to persons. 
 
 And, accordingly, it was only after the overthrow of Des- 
 marets was talked of, that the affairs of the Jesuits so entirely 
 occupied the court. The business had descended to the pro- 
 portions of an intrigue, and the people who managed the king 
 found themselves once more in their element. Incapable of 
 taking in the question as a whole, they were charmed to see it 
 presented to them in one of its mildest aspects. It was no 
 longer necessary to declare war against the Jesuits ; a trick 
 must be played them, and there have always been people dis- 
 posed to be prouder of a trick well played, than of a battle 
 gained. 
 
 The Duke de Choiseul, in spite of his superiority to many 
 others, was no genius. Broad views, largely conceived and 
 nobly-uxecuted projects were in nowise his forte. All that 
 can be said is that he contri\cd to conceal this better than 
 most statesmen of his day. This gave him a certain air of 
 grandeur, which his courtiers and ho himself took for real grrat- 
 ness, liut to which history soon ga\'o its due. Few ministers, 
 in i-LNiIity, have ever lived more blindly from day to day ; few 
 have ever been more wantini; in principles, or Have allowed 
 themselves to be so guided, not only by events, but by the 
 
THE IltrOUENOT. 191 
 
 slightest fluctuations of opinion. He appeared to be in ad- 
 vance of his age, but was merely pushed forward by it. 
 
 In this case, particularly, what was his object in exposing the 
 Jesuits to the enmity of the parliament 1 What could it be 1 
 The more we examine the history of this particular crisis, the 
 more we are at a loss to unders(>and his aim. He was not pious 
 enough to wish their fall from love to religion, nor philosopher 
 enough to desire it for the benefit of infidelity ; nor was he liberal 
 enough to aid in it for the sake of the freedom of the people 
 and the progress of liberal ideas. On the contrary, every- 
 thing would appear to indicate that he had not even formed an 
 exact idea of the results to which the event might lead in these 
 three points of view, the only truly important ones. His 
 great object, his only thought, was like that of the marquise, 
 to disarm opposition and remain in place. Moreover, the 
 question as a whole was above his capacity ; it was necessary 
 that he should take it in one of its details, which would ab- 
 solve him from the necessity of attacking principles. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 A PRIME MINISTER. 
 
 He had, accordingly, by means of his confidants, set afloat 
 the idea of changing the confessor. If the enterprise fail, the 
 responsibility of it will fall upon the subalterns alone ; if it 
 succeed, he will allow the honor to be given to him. If the 
 new confessor be favorable to Madame de Pomptjour, she 
 will be grateful for it, and the minister will be assured of her 
 support ; if the new confessor cause her downfall, the minister 
 will reign alone. At all events, he will have avoided pronounc- 
 ing against the Jesuits. If they come off" conquerors they 
 
192 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 cannot boast of having conquered him ; if they are over- 
 thrown, it will be the king himself, their friend, who will have 
 abandoned them, and there will accordingly no longer bo «ny 
 reason for keeping up appearances. 
 
 However, it was only by deceiving the king as to the con- 
 sequences of this act, that his consent to it could possibly be 
 gained. To acknowledge to him, or even to let him perceive 
 the results which they hoped to draw from it against the 
 Jesuits, would have been to labor for them. It was necessary 
 to make him look upon it as a mere change of person not of 
 system, and the Duke de Choiseul, aided by .the marquise, 
 had for some time been working with this object in view. 
 
 The duke had in consequence been much annoyed at the last 
 conferences of the king with Father Desmarets. Either they 
 would come to an understanding, — and then how was a new 
 confessor to be proposed, — or they would not come to an un- 
 derstanding, and then the king before changing would wish to 
 be certain of finding the other more conciliating. And could 
 an honorable confessor be found who would promise to be 
 more accommodating than Desmarets ? 
 
 The latter was evidently gaining ground, so that the minis- 
 ter had contrived not to be at Versailles at the moment when 
 the disgrace of the marquise should be announced. He did 
 not wish to be suspected of being there with any particular 
 object, nor did he wish to be obliged to offer consolation or aid 
 which would have been promises. He had until now been so 
 united with her, that unless he took great care, the fall might 
 can-y him down also. 
 
 Accordingly, for two days he had remained in Paris, but he 
 Icnew the course of events at Versailles hour by hour, and had 
 been the first to learn, what toward the afternoon had become 
 a general rumor, that the marquise was about to be dismissed. 
 
THB HUGUENOT. 193 
 
 It w.os the same day upon which he had appointed a meeting 
 with Father Bridaine, that so great a change had taken place iu 
 >,he affairs in which he was to be concerned. His first thought 
 had been to tell him that for the present there was nothing 
 to be done ; but upon reflection he found that affairs were in a 
 more promising position than he had at first imagined. If, on 
 the one hand, the exile of the favorite appeared for awhile to 
 strengthen Desmarfets in his post, this same event, on the other, 
 destroyed one of the greatest obstacles which the minister had 
 yet perceived. It was now no longer necessary to seek a less 
 severe confessor. The king would now no longer fear seem- 
 ing to change with the sole object of having one more concili- 
 ating ; it was even possible, if he appeared a little inclined tc 
 abandon his irregularities, to induce him to quit the Jesuit as 
 too indulgent, and to recommend the other for his very aus- 
 terity. Thus, after having nearly given up the idea of making 
 this offer to Bridaine, Choiseul had returned to his determina- 
 tion of doing it as soon as possible. He knew besides, that 
 the affair had become known, and was tolerably certain that 
 the archbishop would be one of the first informed of it. 
 
 WARRING ELEMENTS. 
 
 There was a reception at his h6tel on this same evening. It 
 was Wednesday, the usual day for the soirees of the duchess. 
 He had been very glad of this pretext for absenting himself 
 from Versailles, a thing which he rarely did two days in suc- 
 cession. 
 
 The saloon of Madame de Choiseul was open to all the good 
 society of Paris. But at this epoch, good society was becom- 
 
 17 
 
194 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 ing a very difFerent thing from that originally so designated. 
 Aristocracy of wealth walked boldly beside aristocracy of 
 birth. The space still left between them by social position, 
 was filled up by corruption, — for vice as well as virtue may 
 constitute an equality. By the side of these two was growing 
 up another, an aristocracy of literature, to which the two first, 
 partly from taste, but chiefly from necessity, had begun openly 
 to pay their court. The authors, with some few exceptions, 
 yvcTQ still very polite to the old escutcheons and the long 
 purses ; but this politeness began to assume a tolerably pat- 
 ronizing air. The time was felt to be approaching when a 
 well-made pen should take precedence of the heaviest sword 
 that ever descended from one generation to another, from the 
 bluff warrior of Charlemagne to a duke or peer of the (Eil-de- 
 Ba3uf 
 
 And accordingly, good society was the confused mingling of 
 nobles who began to disbelieve in their own nobility, financiers 
 ceasing to look upon themselves as inferior to any one, and 
 writers practising the management of their sceptre, throwing 
 themselves headlong into the future opened to them by the 
 weakness of some, the insignificance of others, and the de- 
 pravity of all. Although the latter party were, as usual, 
 divided into a number of coteries, they did not even need to 
 lay aside their internal dissensions in order upon the least 
 alarm to find themselves in a compact phalanx which defied 
 the blunted weapons of the old regime. 
 
 This phalanx had its fields for manoeuvreing, — the saloons, — 
 and there were few where it exhibited itself more at its ease 
 thar. in that of Madame dc Choiseul. Nowhere could the 
 Diogenes of the day more freely jostle with their tubs the 
 strong boxes of the financiers, the swords of the chevaliers, 
 the laces of the ladies, and the crosses of the clergy. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 195 
 
 This equality was, in reality, not the effect of the morals of 
 the age alone, nor of the liberal instincts of the mistress of the 
 house. It entered into the policy of the minister. Besides 
 the popularity which it gained him with the literary and 
 financial men, he managed by this means to tutor the nobility 
 without lessening their dignity, — which he would have been 
 reluctant to do, — and without, like Richelieu, crushing them, 
 which was indeed no longer possible. Now he rightly looked 
 upon the humiliation of the nobility as one of the necessities 
 of the day, as one of the future conditions of all governments 
 which would wish to be founded upon possibility and not play 
 too hazardous a game. It is little probable that he took into 
 consideration all the consequences of this revolution ; or per- 
 haps we should speak more correctly in saying that he only 
 looked upon it as a means of strengthening and assuring his 
 power. But at all events, it was one way of understanding 
 his age ; and when we remember how many people did not 
 understand it at all, and died without doing so, or only opened 
 their eyes to its meaning upon the scaffold, we are almost 
 tempted to praise him for having gone even so far as he did. 
 
 LI. 
 
 S0IR]6e at the minister's hotel. THE ABBfi. 
 
 The assemblage of guests this evening was neither numei 
 ous nor brilliant; it was a mere summer 'assembly, many of 
 the frequenters of the house being absent at their country 
 places, and the remainder being inclined to prefer a garden, 
 even a public garden, to a heated saloon. Moreover, many 
 had set off for Versailles whilst the duke was returning to 
 Paris ; they wished to be nearer the fountain-head of news. 
 
196 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 and to be present if possible, at some of the scenes of the 
 drama or comedy which was known to be enacting by the 
 king, the marquise and her confessor. There were great num- 
 bers of literary men, — they, for good reasons, being little ac- 
 customed to retire to their estates in the summer, — only those 
 whom we know to be supping with d'Alembert were absent. 
 Their absence had been remarked. The duke had wondered, 
 not without uneasiness, whether these gentlemen were already 
 including him in the disgrace of Madame de Pompadour. 
 
 He was known to be too closely connected with her, and his 
 fortunes to be too closely associated with hers, for any one to 
 venture upon asking him how matters stood. Although 
 everybody knew about as much of the aflair as he did, he was 
 supposed to be better informed than the rest, and his air of 
 anxiety confirmed this idea. It was in vain that the duchess 
 exerted herself to the utmost, — it was foimd impossible to es- 
 tablish a general conversation. There was no vivacity save in 
 the corners, where people retired to chat, and to watch closely 
 every movement of the minister. The newly-arrived guests 
 were scarcely allowed time to salute the duchess, before they 
 were inveigled ' into these corners to be overwhelmed with 
 questions, and he who of all others had the most questions to 
 ask, and dared not ask them, was the minister himself. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock, when a name suddenly announced 
 by the usher, attracted all eyes to the door. 
 
 The new comer was an abbe of middle height, deformed 
 and almost humpbacked ; his countenance was very ugly, but 
 its whole expression was, in spite of this, so spirituelle, so ani- 
 mated, that the deformity of his figure was forgotten in the 
 sparkling of his eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! Good evening ! Monsieur de Chauvelin," said the 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 197 
 
 minister extending his hand. " Who imagined that you were 
 in Paris ?" 
 
 " Why — you in the first place, I should think — " ■ 
 
 The duke pressed his hand in a peculiar manner, — which he 
 appeared to understand. 
 
 " Ah ! — true," he continued, " Monseigneur could not have 
 heard of it yet. In fact I only arrived an hour or two 
 since." 
 
 " Arrived from where V asked the duchess. 
 
 She knew very well. The abbe de Chauvelin, councillor'a 
 clerk of the parliament of Paris, had been sent to Mont-St.- 
 Michael, as we have already seen, at the time of the dissolution 
 of that body. He had come out bolder and more of a Jansen- 
 ist than ever, and now he had just passed another six months 
 in the same place. But he was one of Madame de Choiseul's 
 best friends, and she loved, as she said, to enrage him, — which 
 the witty abbe generally repaid with usury. 
 
 He gazed at her, upon this singular question, with a look 
 half rueful, half laughing, and shrugging his shoulders, — al- 
 ways high enough, he heaved a deep sigh and moved away. 
 
 " Poor man !" she resumed, " has he left his tongue at that 
 place V 
 
 He turned and answered, — " No ; I have not left it, but 
 sharpened it." 
 
 " Is that the reason it rem^ains in its sheath V 
 
 " Until it is taken out." 
 
 " And when will that be 1" 
 
 "When I find, Madame, an adversary who is worth the 
 trouble." 
 
 He saluted her with a mischievous air, and continued to move 
 away. 
 
 From all quarters the guests flocked to welcome him. Six 
 
 17* 
 
198 TnE PRIEST AND 
 
 months of imprisonment had prodigiously increased his im- 
 portance, — as might have been foreseen, — in the eyes of all those 
 who were to have been intimidated by it. The men envied 
 him ; the women no longer thought him so very ugly. It was 
 a singular thing to see such a reception tendered openly, in the 
 sight of the minister, to a man who had just been punished as 
 a rebel, and who was known to be ready to show the same 
 disposition again. It was well known, moreover, that the 
 minister had a hand in his imprisonment, — and yet the duke 
 had been seen to receive him cordially. All this, and the last 
 circumstance, more particularly, serves to prove what we have 
 asserted in regard to the universal want of respect for princi- 
 ples and authority, as well as the absence of self-respect, which 
 then prevailed. Those charged by the State with the support 
 of the crown were openly connected with those who made it 
 their business to hold royal authority in check. The official 
 defenders of religion made a point of being good friends with 
 the preachers of impiety and disorganization. Just as two 
 lawyers who thunder at each other in court, go away afterwards 
 arm in arm ; and two actors who appear ready to devour each 
 other on the stage, retire into the green-room and quietly re- 
 sume their interrupted conversation. 
 
 It was in a great degree owing to this excessive levity, that 
 such bitter hatred had appeared against the Jesuits. " That 
 which is most detested, in periods of disquiet and disorder," 
 says a historian,* " is order. The Jesuits were too well organ- 
 ized to please a state of society resembling a mob." All these 
 people who had no principles, and knew it, were displeased at 
 finding principles in others ; and what offended them in the 
 Jesuits was, not to see that they had bad principles, — that 
 would not have troubled these people,- -but to see that they 
 * Capefigue. 
 
THE HUGUENOT, 199 
 
 had any -whatever.- In every age there is to be found some 
 Aristides whom men are weary of hearing called the Just ; 
 some man or some institution which camiot he pardoned for 
 remaining unshalcen when everything else totters. Let this 
 immovability be the result either of virtue or vice, — no mat- 
 ter, — it is all the same in the eyes of the demolishing party. 
 Whether a land-mark be well or ill placed, there will always 
 be some who will tear it down simply because it wearies them 
 always to see it in the same spot. 
 
 On the other hand, this bitterness was for certain men a 
 means of persuading the public, — of persuading themselves, to 
 a certain point, — that they too had fixed principles ; that they 
 were not incapable of devoting themselves to a work, and of 
 giving to it their time, their strength, and their life. There 
 are many Catholics whose Catholicity is restricted to detesting 
 the Protestants; there are also Protestants whose religion 
 consists in not being Catholics, — and at that time there were 
 many persons who believed themselves sufficiently moral be- 
 cause they attacked the m.orals of Escobar, sufficiently religious 
 because they rejected the religion of the Jesuits and men of 
 strong principles because they used as much perseverance in 
 battering down this powerful organization, as its founders had 
 used in building it up. What we say of the strifes and strug- 
 gles of 1760, may be asserted "almost word for word, of those 
 of the present day. 
 
 We would not place the Abbe de Chauvelin, who had been 
 sharpening his tongue at Mont-St.-Michael, precisely in the 
 last category. With him, levity of manner was rather a sacri- 
 fice to the habits of the day, than the effect of inclination or 
 want of principle. His morals were irreproachable ; and it 
 does not appear that his enemies were justified in ascribing to 
 his deformity alone the purity of his conduct A prebendary 
 
200 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 of Notre-Dame, he was on the worst possible terms with the 
 archbishop, but on account of his Jansepist and parliamentary- 
 inclinations, not on account of free-thinl^ing nor libertinism. 
 Left to himself he would probably have contented himself 
 with dislilcing the Jesuits, but he would have recoiled from 
 touching things for which he still had a reverence, by aiming a 
 blow at them. But as men of sense are frequently at the ser- 
 vice of fools, and good intentions follow in the wake of bad 
 ones, he had allowed himself to be put at the head of this 
 crusade. Jansenists, parliamentarians, philosophers, all joined 
 to urge him onward. His popularity had even extended into 
 those classes which, since the days of tlie Fronde, had appeared 
 unconscious of everything which passed beyond their limits. 
 The fish-women had sung lamentations for his exile and pseans 
 on his return. His second exile had nearly caused an insur- 
 rection, and his second return was to be a new triumph. They 
 were ready- to salute him as the future saviour of his country. 
 
 LII. 
 
 TWO MEN OF THE NEW RKC.IME. WIT OP THE EIGHTEENTH 
 
 CENTURY. 
 
 When he had walked long enough through the saloons, the 
 duke, who had not lost sight of him, addressed him again. 
 They talked for a few moments with those who came in their 
 way ; and then slowly moving off, the duke said in a low 
 voice : 
 
 " I will steal away, — you come after me, and bring La 
 '^3ialotais with you." 
 
 " Is he here V 
 
 " Yes. Look for him." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 201 
 
 Chauvelin resumsd his walk. He at length .discovered, in 
 the recess of a window, him whom he sought. 
 
 "Well, comrade," he said, "it seems that I must come and 
 look for you." 
 
 " I was witnessing your triumph from afar." 
 
 " And doubtless my laurels will prevent you from sleeping." 
 
 "Probably." 
 
 He spoke the truth, although he laughed. Eene de la Cha- 
 lotais, attorney-general of the parliament of Brittany, played 
 there the same part which Chauvelin played at Paris. Active 
 and ardent, he burned to throw himself into the thickest of the 
 fray. He envied the lot of the magistrates of Paris, obliged 
 to come into contact with the ministers, the princes, and the 
 king. He consoled himself as well as he could, in the mean- 
 time, at the expense of the duke d'Aiguillon, governor of Brit- 
 tany. No one surpassed him in the art of transfixing a man 
 with one of those witticisms which fasten themselves to their 
 object, even though they may not be the best in the world. 
 " If he did not cover himself with glory, he at least covered 
 himself with flour," he remarked of this same duke d'Aiguillon, 
 because, during a battle, he had unluckily entered a mill for a 
 few moments. This combat had saved Brittany, and the 
 governor, who had commanded it, remained the victim of this 
 malicious joke. 
 
 " Who is to begin ?" resumed Chauvelin. " What are you 
 about at Eennes ?" 
 
 " We only await the signal." 
 
 " You will not have long to wait, I think." 
 
 " What says Choiseul V 
 
 " He is awaiting us in his cabinet. Let us walk, and then 
 we will go out unperceived." 
 
 But as they passed the duchess, she exclaimed : 
 
202 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Come ! Monsieur de St.-Michael, come ! You have been 
 churlish, but you shall be forgiven." 
 
 He approached her. 
 
 " But only after due punishment," she added. " See how 
 much more gallant your brother is than you ! Eead these 
 verses. That shall be your punishment." 
 
 It was a singular enough production, which had been the 
 rage for the last two days ; for little verses had not lost the 
 privilege of sharing with the greatest events the attention and 
 interest of the gay world. The Marquis de Chauvelin, a 
 brother of the abbe, found himself, while on a visit to the 
 Prince de Conti, at Isle-Adam, at table with seven young and 
 pretty women, his own wife included. Some one jestingly 
 compared them to the seven capital sins. The idea took. 
 They drew lots who should be Pride, who Envy, etc., and the 
 Marquis de Chauvelin had soon written a couplet for eacL 
 
 TO MADAME DE MAULEVBIER. 
 PRIDE. 
 
 Pride owes to you a chftnge moat sweet; 
 
 In former times Vicr was its name ; 
 But since 't is honored with yoiir choice, 
 
 Why, it and Justice are the same. 
 
 TO MADAME D AGENOIS. 
 
 ENVY. 
 
 I 'm too indulgent far, perchance, 
 But still I must forgive your sin ; 
 
 For sure I must excuse in you 
 What, seeing you, I feel within. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 203 
 
 TO MADAME DE SUEGJiRES. 
 AVARICE. 
 
 Altho' your sin a little odd may seem, 
 How easily it could become my own: 
 
 I feel that / had avaricious been, 
 
 If you as mine, dear Iris, I had known. 
 
 TO MADAME DE CHAUVELIN. 
 
 GLUTTONY. 
 
 In now reflecting on your sin. 
 
 And looking on your charming face, 
 In truth I am right vexed to think 
 
 That I your dishes cannot grace. 
 
 TO MADEMOISELLE DE ClOfi. 
 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 To idleness resign yourself, — 
 
 For Iris, when one 's sure to charm, 
 'T is well to rest in quietness ; 
 
 Your indolence can do no harm. 
 
 TO MADAME DE COURTEILLES. 
 
 ANGER. 
 
 Without forbidding wrath to you, 
 
 I 'd force you, Chloris, to be calm ; 
 For angry you should never be. 
 
 Except at those you cannot charm. 
 
 There are six of the verses. They who wish for the seventh 
 may find it in Grimm's journal. Anything could he said in 
 those days, provided it were said in verse. 
 
204 THE PEIE8T AND 
 
 "Very good," said Chauvelin, coldly re-folding the paper. 
 
 " Very good ! Is that all you have to say f 
 
 " I have long known that my brother is witty. May I go 
 away now, Madame ?" 
 
 " Where to, if you please V 
 
 " You do not know where I came from : what have you to 
 do with where I am going ?" 
 
 " Malicious ! No, you shall not go." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " Not until you have said or showed us something new. 
 Madame la Courteilles, Anger, come and help me to keep 
 Monsieur de Chauvelin." 
 
 Madame de Courteilles was, in fact, a few steps off. 
 
 " Shall I be obliged to grow angry ?" she asked. 
 
 " By all means. According to the verse it wUl be a proof 
 t Jat you do not please me." 
 
 She smiled. He rejoined his friend ; and a few moments 
 al^er wards, they entered the cabinet of the minister. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 PLANS. 
 
 " Always imprudent, Chauvelin !" said the latter. " You 
 have put me on thorns. To come publicly to my house ! To 
 attempt to say to me, before forty people, that I knew you 
 were at Paris ! Why did you not also tell that it was I who 
 had you set free V 
 
 " O, that is well enough known." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but that is no reason for proclaiming it on 
 the house-tops." 
 
 " My emotions, Monseigneur, — my acknowledgments — " 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 205 
 
 And the abl)6 spoke in the serious tone which he only em- 
 ployed when jesting. 
 
 " Ah ha ! your acknowledgments !" 
 
 " Well, — yes, — I acknowledge — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That you must have need of me, since you have had me 
 taken out of prison." 
 
 " It may be so. But, gentlemen, let us speak seriously. 
 You know what is going on at Versailles. You are aware, 
 perhaps, that we think of commencing the attack by the down- 
 fall of Father Desmarets." 
 
 " An intrigue ?" said La Chalotais. " I '11 have nothing to 
 do with it." 
 
 " Nor I," said the abbe. " As much fighting as you like, 
 even if I had to return to my rock for ten years. But an 
 intrigue, — no." 
 
 " Let it alone, then, gentlemen, let it alone ! Who asks 
 you 1 What could you do, if you would, to overthrow Father 
 Desmarets ? The king need only know that you were con- 
 cerned in the plot, to keep his man forever." 
 
 " I know that very well," replied Chauvelin. " What I 
 meant to say, and La Chalotais also, doubtless, was that these 
 petty intrigues^ have had their day ; that we are strong enough 
 to do without them ; that — " 
 
 " Ah ha ! an insurrection ?" 
 
 " No, Monseigneur, — a revolution. A good legal decree of 
 the parliament for the suppression of the order of the Jesuits ; 
 and we should see then if the king would keep his." 
 
 " Pcste ! Monsieur ! If these walls had ears, it is not for 
 ten years only that you would be sent to Mont-St -Michael. 
 And if it were known that I, — / listened to these fine 
 speeches — " 
 
 18 
 
206 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Then you would go there with me, Seignet ■ Fouquet." 
 
 " Let us return to our subject, if you please. This beginning, 
 it seems, is not to your taste ?" 
 
 " Then you are absolutely determined, in your quality of 
 prime ihinister, to begin with these petty expedients ?" 
 
 " Petty ! That depends upon circumstances. In the first 
 place, do you know whom I put in Desmaret's place 1" 
 
 " The abbe de Narnicrs, of course." 
 
 " Father Bridaine, with your permission." 
 
 " Ah ! it is no longer I who say no. He himself would 
 never consent. Where will you catch him, besides 1" 
 
 " Here." 
 
 " Here f ' 
 
 " In five minutes, perhaps. You see I think of everything." 
 
 " Monseigneur is a great minister." 
 
 " Ah ! you admit it ?" 
 
 " Until your next orders." 
 
 " Good. Well — stop — ^is not there a carriage entering the 
 court 1" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Go to the window — look out — the court is lighted." 
 
 " The carriage stops." 
 
 " Who gets out 1" 
 
 " No one yet. Ah ! a priest." 
 
 " It is my man, — go quickly back to the saloon, gentle- 
 men." 
 
 " We should like very much to see him." 
 
 " He does not know you V 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, then, wait here until he comes in." 
 
 A valet appeared. The duke did not wait for him to 
 speak. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 207 
 
 " Make him come in," he said, advancing towards the door 
 himself. And as the priest approached, he exclaimed : 
 " Come in, my Father ! come in ! Ha !" 
 It was Desmarets. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 UNEXMCTED ARRIVAL. A PRIME MINISTER IN AGONIES. ^JESUIT 
 
 AND JANSBNIST. 
 
 The duke had too much command over himself, to allow his 
 surprise to be visible after the first moment ; but what curi- 
 ously complicated the situation was, that his two friends, know- 
 ing neither Father Bridaine nor Desmarets by sight, saluted the 
 supposed Father Bridaine in their most respectful manner. 
 
 Although Desmarets had never seen Chauvelin, he recog- 
 nized him from his appearance. This, as we have said, was 
 no difficult thing. He remained motionless upon the threshold. 
 
 " Gentlemen, Father Desmarets, confessor to the king," said 
 the duke, precipitately ; for the whole scene had not lasted 
 three seconds. 
 
 " Messieurs de la Chalotais and de Chauvelin," he continued, 
 presenting them in their turn to the astonished Jesuit. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Desmarfets, " I had no more expectation 
 of meeting you here, than Monseigneur had, I see, of my visit 
 to him. I was already surprised to perceive that I was ad- 
 mitted so unhesitatingly — " 
 
 And as he made this observation, he thought to himself, — 
 " It is odd, but my arrival here is precisely similar to that of 
 Bridaine at the archbishop's." 
 
 " I should be distressed," he continued, " to have stumbled 
 upon a secret, for Monseigneur said, ' Come in, my Father.' 
 Happily he did not add the name." 
 
208 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 This was equivalent to asking the name, but as no one re 
 plied, he smiled, and resumed, " In short, one thing is certain, 
 that you were not expecting the confessor to the king." 
 
 An almost imperceptible glance exchanged between Chau- 
 velin and his friend at these words, did not escape the Jesuit, 
 lie had heard a rumor of the conspiracy against him, now he 
 doubted of it no longer. He for whom he had been taken 
 was the person who was to fill his place, and who could this be 
 if not Father Bridaine 1 
 
 " Sit down, toy Father,'' said Choiseul. " If these gentlemen 
 are de trop, they will have the kindness to retire for a moment." 
 
 " Certainly," they said. 
 
 " No, gentlemen, by no means. I am not sorry that you 
 also should hear what I have come to say to Monseigneur." 
 
 This was a serious commencement. Choiseul in turning to 
 take a seat, quietly bolted the door. He did not wish to risk 
 an encounter between Bridaine and the confessor. 
 
 " Gentlemen," began the confessor, " when a city is besieged, 
 it is generally agreed that those parts of the defences sur- 
 mounted with a black flag are not to be fired upon. They 
 cover the churches, hospitals, and places which are or ought to 
 be held sacred. 
 
 " I wish now to plant one of these standards. In the midst 
 of the attack directed against us from all sides, I wish that 
 there should be one point considered as sacred and inviolable. 
 
 " You understand me, I think. You know what has taken 
 place at Versailles. I have gained a victory over the king 
 which should rejoice every friend of religion and morality ; — 
 and yet I have reason to believe that there are many who will 
 be displeased at it. Will you let me proceed with this work ? 
 Will you respect the still fragile edifice which I have succeeded 
 in raising in the conscience of the king, upon the ruins of his 
 
THE HUGUENOT. * 209 
 
 immoralities 1 Would you rather that he should be damned, 
 than that he should be saved by the ministry of a Jesuit 1 
 This is my question. It is a frank one. The answer, I do not 
 doubt, will be equally so." 
 
 " Will Monseigneur allow me to reply V asked La Cha- 
 lotais. 
 
 " Certainly," answered the minister, who asked nothing bet- 
 ter than to be silent. 
 
 '"My Father," said the attorney-general, " your idea of the 
 black banner appears to me so good a one that I must ask 
 permission to carry it out still further. The places thus desig- 
 nated are, it is true, respected in war. But if it be suddenly 
 discovered that they are peopled by enemies, and that beneath 
 the shelter of this standard, destined to turn aside all attacks, 
 assaults are preparing, miaes excavating, — what think you? 
 Must it still be respected ? 
 
 " You see how we, the enemies of your order, are situated ; 
 of your order, I say, and by no means of those honorable men 
 which it may number among its members. If we are led to 
 include you all in our attacks, ascribe the fault to your consti- 
 tution alone, to your unity, your vows of absolute obedience, 
 which make of your order an army, and consequently of each 
 Individual a soldier who is to be fought against, even if one 
 has nothing against him. If we constantly batter down all 
 that you build or defend, it is because there is not one of your 
 works, even excellent in itself, which is not connected with the 
 whole, which does not shelter something of which we disap- 
 prove. You carry Christianity among the heathen, but it is a 
 mutilated Christianity ; you civilize them, but just enough to 
 subject them to you. As moralists you are inexorable in 
 some few conspicuous cases, accommodating and relaxed in a 
 thousand others. MaslJers of public instruction, learning and 
 
 18* 
 
210 , THE PRIEST AND 
 
 Ignorance equally answer your purposes. You excel in teach- 
 ing literature in your colleges, and superstition in our villages, 
 — ^geometry to the former, — mysticism to the latter. And all 
 this is the same work ; and all these men occupied in so many 
 different things form in reality but one ; — they cannot if they 
 would, do otherwise than form one. In vain you claim to be 
 only confessor to the king ; in vain would you wish it. You 
 are an advanced sentinel ; by virtue of the very fact that you 
 occupy a post, you cannot avoid being one of the twenty 
 thousand points of that weapon, of which it has been said that 
 the handle is at Rome, and the point everywhere. 
 
 " It is evident that in attacking you we risk striking many 
 things which ought to be safe from every attack ; but again, 
 whose fault is this ? Why are you everywhere, — of every- 
 thing, and in everything ? To confme ourselves to a single 
 fact. Here you are, confessors to all sovereigns. Do you 
 honestly believe that this is natural, necessary, — a thing or- 
 dained by God r 
 
 " Why not ?" asked the Jesuit. 
 
 " Why not 1 Certainly, we should find it difficult to prove 
 the contrary to you mathematically. But that is no reason 
 why we should not be firmly convinced that it cannot have 
 been the will of God to concentrate in you alone all the power 
 and life of the church." 
 
 " Monsieur,'' said Desmarets, " I see, what for that matter I 
 knew already, — that we are to expect no quarter from you. 
 But you do not answer the question which I had the honor 
 to ask Monseigneur, and to which I confess I should prefer him 
 to reply." 
 
 " What question ?" said the minister. 
 
 " You have forgotten 1 I asked if I should be allowed to 
 complete the work which I had begun with the king." 
 
THE HUGHJENOT. 2ll 
 
 " Well, Monsieur," said the abbe de Chauvelin, " could not 
 Monseigneur in his turn aslc you why you have so long de- 
 layed commencing this work. What ! you have been confessor 
 to the king for seven years ; your society has had the disposal 
 of the same situation, — thanks to secret negotiation, of which 
 you probably know more than I do,* — ^for thirty-eight years, if 
 I am not much mistalien, and because the king suddenly feels 
 a little regret for the immoralities which you have done nothing 
 to hinder, — are you to have the right of protecting yourself be- 
 hind this commencement of a change ? But it seems to me, 
 my Father, that the best way of proving that this post belongs 
 of right to you, would be to fill it with more success. So long 
 as the kings choose to be their own masters you can do 
 nothing, — as soon as they submit you can do too much. But 
 we, — ^we wish neither a debauchee nor a bigof on the throne, 
 so—" 
 
 Choiseul saw that the usual frankness of the indomitable 
 councillor had taken possession of him. He tried to calm him 
 with a look, but Chauvelin was no longer capable of observing 
 this. ' 
 
 " No," he resumed, still more loudly, " neither a debauchee 
 nor a bigot ! What good does it do us to have him kneel be- 
 fore a Jesuit instead of a mistress, if he finds there the same 
 inspiration of servility as a man, and despotism as a king ? 
 What good does it do." 
 
 " Monsieur de Chauvelin ! Monsieur de Chauvelin !" cried 
 the duke, almost supplicatingly. But Chauvelin heard still 
 less than before. 
 
 * Secret article of a treaty concluded with Spain upon the occasion 
 of the maiTiage projected between Louis XV. and an infanta. The 
 fiist confessor of the king had been the abbe Fleury, author of an 
 " Ecclesiastical History." 
 
212 THK PRIEST AND 
 
 " What is it to us that he changes his adviser, if he is still 
 for his kingdom the same indolent ruler, who only arouses 
 himself in order to strilce, to gag, to crush. All the abuses 
 which have been accumulating for centuries we see centred in 
 him. All the evils — " 
 
 " Chauvelin, I order you to be silent," cried the duke, beside 
 himself. 
 
 " Let him alone, Monse'gneur, — let him alone,'' said the 
 Jesuit, quietly. " It is well to know how the king is served, — 
 and served up by his trusty and well-beloved parliament.'' 
 
 " Excuse him, my Father, — excuse him. He says more, 
 instead of less than he thinks, — I am sure of it. This will go 
 no farther, I hope 1" 
 
 " Go no farther, Monsieur the duke ? It is not under the 
 seal of confession, I thmk, that these gentlemen have opened 
 their hearts to me. Let them not be afraid, however." 
 
 " Afraid !" interrupted Chauvelin. " Do we look as if we 
 were afraid f 
 
 " Afraid 1 No, gentlemen, that was not what I meant. 1 
 know that there are people for whom martyrdom has its 
 charms, particularly when they can get off easily," he added, 
 glancing at Chauvelin, — " when they have friends to soothe it, 
 to shorten it." 
 
 Here he turned towards the duke with a slight smile. 
 
 " All that I meant to say was," he continued, " that there is 
 no likelihood of my going and repeating to the king, with 
 names and dates, what I have accidentally heard here. But 
 when I see his majesty again disposed to rely upon the fidelity 
 of his parliament, you must confess that it would be treason 
 for me not to tell him the true state of the case. What is 
 Monseigneur's opinion?" 
 
 " I have nc advice to give you.'' 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 213 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " Nor to receive from you. Give advice to the king, if he 
 wishes it." 
 
 " In fact he has asked my advice. And the true purpose of 
 ray visit vras to see what I should have to reply to him," 
 
 " It was upon some important point, it seems." 
 
 " Very important. He asked me if a king can conscien- 
 tiously keep a minister who is in high favor with the enemies 
 of royal power, who is leagued with — " 
 
 " Leagued with them ! I ! — " cried the duke, already quite 
 pale. 
 
 " Good !" murmured La Chalotais, " now he will deny 
 everything." 
 
 " Leagued with them," resumed Desmarets, " receiving them 
 in his saloons, in his cabinet — " 
 
 " The king cannot have said that. Monsieur." 
 
 " Not precisely. That is my arrangement of it. I put 
 facts where the king had only suspicions, and just suspicions, 
 as you see." 
 
 The minister was annihilated. The Jesuit triumphed, but in 
 true Jesuitical style. His air was more humble, his eyes more 
 meekly cast down than before. When he judged that the ar- 
 row had sufficiently struck home, he rose. 
 
 " You are going, my Father V asked the duke. 
 
 And at the same moment the minister cast a half supplicat- 
 ing, half wrathful look at his two friends. In their presence 
 he dared not enter upon an explanation which they would look 
 upon as cowardly, and how indeed, even if he were alone with 
 Desmarets, could he enter upon this explanation without hu- 
 miliating himself 1 
 
 " You are going V he repeated, for Desmarets had not replied. 
 He had silently taken his hat and was preparing to go out. 
 
214 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 "I am expected at Versailles," he said, a length. 
 
 "By the king?" 
 
 "By the king." 
 
 Choiseul accompanied him a few steps, as if to show him 
 out. A violent stru^le was seen upon his countenance. Sud- 
 denly, when the Jesuit opened the door, he opened another, 
 and exclaiming, " Come ! come !" he drew him towards it. 
 Desmarets appeared to hesitate; then he followed him, and 
 the door was again closed. 
 
 LV. 
 
 WHAT NEXT 1 
 
 The two friends looked at each other ; one furious, the other 
 laughing. 
 
 " Well ?" said the latter. 
 
 " Well 1" repeated Chauvelin. 
 
 " After that, depend upon the courage of a minister !" 
 
 " Did you think that there existed a minister who was 
 philosopher enough to sacrifice his place V 
 
 " He will promise now all that the other wishes." 
 
 " It is for us, then, to absolve him from his promises." 
 
 "To absolve him?" 
 
 " Yes, by removing all possibility of his fulfilling them." 
 
 " So we are to go on V 
 
 " Before three months, I will have the parliament order me 
 to present him with, a report of the constitution of the society." 
 
 " Perge, seqiiar^ 
 
 " By the way, did it occur to you that if the Jesuit had gone 
 out of the other door, he would have found himself face to face 
 jidth his successor V 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 215 
 
 " The successor will not succeed, since Choiseul is making 
 friends with the other. When he comes — " 
 
 " He has come. While you were talking, I heard the sound 
 of a second carriage. I looked out, and saw another priest 
 arrive. He had on gaiters." 
 
 " That was he. Let us go back to the saloon. We shall see 
 him as we pass." 
 
 But there was no one in the waiting-room. 
 
 " He must have been shown into another room," said Chau- 
 velin. 
 
 " (")r he was perhaps tired of waiting. They say he is not 
 much of a courtier." 
 
 And they returned to the saloon, where they again mingled 
 with the buzzing groups which were scattered about the vast 
 apartment. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 DIPLOMACY AND JESUITISM. 
 
 It was into his library that Choiseul had conducted Des- 
 marets. Three windows opened upon one side of the apart- 
 ment, which at this moment was only illuminated by the light 
 which gleamed through them from without. All the rest was 
 in shadow. Before the nearest window a few scattered seats 
 were visible. 
 
 " Sit down, my Father. We are alone. Let us have some 
 talk," said the minister, in a voice which he vainly endeavored 
 to render calm. 
 
 " Let us have some talk," said Desmarets, externally calmer 
 than ever, because he now felt agitated. 
 
 " What you have just told me is — is true 1" 
 
 " Quite true." 
 
216 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 Then followed a long silence. The pale gleam of the lan- 
 terns was reflected from the ceiling upon their motionless faces. 
 Each of them wished he could have seen the other more dis 
 tinctly ; each was glad that his own face was not more plainly 
 visible, 
 
 Choiseul first broke the silence. 
 
 " You came, as you said, to speak to me with perfect frank- 
 ness." 
 
 " I have done so." 
 
 " Have you told me all 1" 
 
 " The king added a few words in regard to your talents — 
 your services — " 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 " Of which he said that he should regret to deprive himself." 
 
 " I am happy to — " 
 
 " But that he would not hesitate — " 
 
 "That he would not hesitate ?— " 
 
 " An instant, if he felt himself commanded by his conscience 
 to do so.'' 
 
 " But you are his conscience." 
 
 " When he heeds me. He appears, for that matter, quite 
 disposed to heed me now. There was one moment when I 
 had but to say the word, and — " 
 
 " But did you say this word ?" 
 
 " Should I be here % I asked for time. I said that the 
 question was a grave one, and that I wished to meditate upon 
 it before God." 
 
 " Before God. Very well. But I imagine that you are 
 not forbidden to reflect upon it before men also, and with 
 men T 
 
 Choiseul had gradually drawn nearer. He lowered his 
 voice. The two seats nearly touched each other. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 217 
 
 " Come," he resumed, " if you did not immediately reply to 
 the king's questions, it was because you had your reasons, — " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " And because you had made certain calculations, — " 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 " Which may be correct." 
 
 " You think so V 
 
 " I do not think so, — I assert it." 
 
 He grew bolder. The Jesuit on his side had played the 
 inflexible long enough ; he began to feel that he was in a po- 
 sition to yield without losing anything. 
 
 •' I assert it," repeated Choiseul. " Must I tell you what 
 these calculations were V 
 
 " It would be curious to hear." 
 
 " Curious, if you like. I neither ask you to say yes or no. 
 Listen." 
 
 " I am listening." 
 
 " I will go and see the minister, — you thought to yourself. 
 I will commence by sounding him, then I will alarm him. 
 When he sees the sword suspended over his head, he will begin 
 to make overtures to me, advances — " 
 
 « Go on." 
 
 " To which I will remain impenetrable, until they become 
 m^ore positive. Then I will begin to listen to him. He will 
 offer, if not to protect us openly, — which he could not do with- 
 out foreswearing himself, — at least quietly to repair the injury 
 which has already been done us. He will promise to arrest, — 
 as much as can be done, — the persecutions of the parliament ; 
 he will promise not to dream any longer of depriving me of 
 my place as confessor. I, — on my side, — it is still you, my 
 Father, who are speaking,- — shall abstain from all hostile ad- 
 vice. I will tell the king that he is mistaken, — I will keep him 
 
 19 
 
218 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 well disposed towards, — towai Is him whom he appearel to 
 suspect ; I — You are silent ? Am I right 1" 
 
 " You said that you would not ask me to say either yes or 
 no." 
 
 " I had forgotten. Well, — it is still you who are speak 
 ing, — I shall come to an' understanding with the minister, and 
 we shall part friends — " 
 
 " Friends ? that is saying a great deal." 
 
 " Allies." 
 
 "It is difficult." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " Another question ? Try to remember that I am not to 
 reply. Go on." 
 
 " I have done." 
 
 " It is then my turn to make suppositions 1" 
 
 " If you will, — unless you think as I do, that it would be 
 better to speak plainly." 
 
 " Be it so. Let us speak plainly. I accept what you offer. 
 But I want more." 
 
 " More !— What ?" 
 
 " Positive and formal promises on a certain number of 
 points." 
 
 " Propose them, I am listening." 
 
 " In the first place, an entire rupture with Madame de Pom- 
 padour." 
 
 " If she leaves the court that will be easy." 
 
 • Rupture with the parliamentary party." 
 
 " Less easy. But I can let them see that they are net to 
 count upon me. And do you imagine that I am really favor- 
 ably disposed towards them V 
 
 " No ; — those in power cannot be friendly to those who ha -e 
 caused that power to totter. You only liked them out of 
 
THE HUGCTENOT. 219 
 
 hatred to us, and now as it is us whom you are going to 
 like—" 
 
 " No raillery. Is that all f 
 
 " Not yet. Do not break entirely, if you do not choose it, 
 with the encyclopedical party, but cause their publication to be 
 suspended for an indefinite length of time." 
 
 " It is suspended." 
 
 " I know it ; but they boast that from you they will receive 
 permission to go on." 
 
 " They shall not receive it. What more 1" ' 
 
 " You will send Father Bridaine back to the provinces — " 
 
 " Father Bridaine ! — who told you 1 — " 
 
 The minister was amazed. 
 
 "Ah!" resumed the other, with his former smile, — "I 
 guessed rightly then." 
 
 " These Jesuits guess everything," murmured Choiseul. 
 
 " I repeat, — you will send Father Bridaine back to the prov- 
 inces." 
 
 " Send him back ? He does as he likes. But I can decline 
 seeing him." 
 
 " Then you are not to see him." 
 
 "Very well. What next?" 
 
 " You will deprive Narniers of his appointment as preacher 
 to the king." 
 
 " Narniers falls naturally with the marquise. But he is to 
 preach on Sunday, and it would be difficult between now and 
 then to—" 
 
 " Let him preach. It will be the funeral oration of the 
 fallen dynasty !" 
 
 " You are pitiless." 
 
 " We have been taught to be so." 
 
 " No, you were pitiless at your birth." 
 
220 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " It was beeause we knew at our birth what awaitod us in 
 this -world. Monsieur de Choiseul, listen to me — " 
 
 The Jesuit had risen. His eyes gleamed with excitement. 
 
 " In this world," he resumed, " there are but two principles. 
 What the generality of men call good and evil, we call authority 
 and liberty. Liberty is the source of all evils, and the mother 
 of all vices ; authority is order, faith, virtue, everything. No ! 
 man was not born free. He is not free ; he caimot, he never 
 will be free. Do you know why you hate us, you philoso- 
 phers, statesmen, and despots of every name and description ? 
 It is not because we are despotic, — no, — ^but because we are so 
 more courageously, more perseveringly, more successfully than 
 you. You fight against liberty, because it annoys you ; we do 
 so because we do not believe in it. You imprison a man, and 
 he struggles to escape ; we make a corpse of him, and he strug- 
 gles no longer. But the secret of our strength is that we our- 
 selves are like corpses in the hands of the power which sustains 
 and guides us. You imagine this power to reside at Rome ? A 
 mistake. The handle like the point, is everywhere. You be- 
 lieve that power to be represented by certain men ? A mis- 
 take. Our superiors are corpses, — our general is a corpse. 
 The pope is a corpse. This power, accordingly, must not be 
 sought for at all, or it must be sought everywhere, for it is 
 evLTywhere. It is at Paris, it is at Rome, it is in the depths 
 of the deserts of the New World, it is everywhere that man 
 is to bo found, since wherever there is a man, there are pas- 
 sions, there is a mind, a heart, — there is a slave in short, who 
 awaits a master. Thus it is in vain that you hate us, all you 
 who by divme right, or human right, by your own will, or the 
 will of the nations, — aspire to govern. In spite of yourselves, 
 you at i our allies, our co-workers, our brothers, in this never 
 ending work of the subjection of the human race. Destroj 
 
THE HCeUENOT. 221 
 
 US, and you will recognize us in others ; — in others, do I say ? 
 in yourselves. Disperse the spirit concentrated in us, and 
 you will breathe it in the very atmosphere which surrounds 
 you. Yes, we are despotism incarnate ; but despotism is 
 nature, — man, — God himself" 
 
 LVII. 
 
 AN APPARITION. 
 
 Suddenly, while the Jesuit was luxuriating in this terrible 
 denunciation of human freedom, a voice was heard from the 
 shadowy distance of the gallery, saying, 
 
 " Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty* 
 
 " For, brethren, ye Jiave been called unto liberty. Stand fast 
 there/ore in the liberty wherewith Christ Ims made us free, and 
 be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage." \ 
 
 This voice was grave and sad. It seemed at the same time 
 to express condemnation of the blasphemy, and supplication 
 for pardon to the blasphemer. 
 
 And while the voice was heard, Desmarets and Choiseul saw 
 a man slowly advancing, whose appearance stupefied them with 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Bridaine !" exclaimed the duke. 
 
 " Bridaine !" murmured the other. 
 
 Bridaine stopped. 
 
 " Bridaine, gentlemen, do you say 1 Say his voice, — for the 
 voice certainly is his, — ^but the words which this voice repeatea 
 are addressed to you by — whom ?" 
 
 And he approached still nearer, and stopped close to the 
 Jesuit. 
 
 * 2 Corinthians, 3d chap. IVth verse, -j- Qalatians, 6th chap. 13th verse. 
 
 19* 
 
222 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Not by me, my Father, by Saint Paul. And have you 
 never read these words, which I could not help repeating upon 
 hearing what you said ? And here, thanks to you, is the fatal- 
 ism of the ancients revived in the Christian world ! ' My yolce 
 is easy,' said Christ ; and the human race, according to you, is 
 destined to bend beneath a yoke of iron. He called mankind 
 His flock. His lambs ; you wish them to be your cattle ! 
 These are the lessons which you give to the rulers of this 
 world ! Thus you teach them to respect the image of God in 
 their fellow-creatures, and the seal of Christ upon those brows 
 bent to the earth around them ! Good. Take courage ; unite 
 your efforts ; reign, trample, crush. But the time will come, 
 believe me, when God will in His turn choose to reign. 
 ' Where is thy brother V a voice will then cry, — a m.ore ter- 
 rible voice than mine ; and you will not be able to reply, like 
 the first murderer, ' Am I my brother's keeper V For you are 
 supposed to be the keepers of this flock whom Christ has pur- 
 chased with His blood. You have promised, — you have sworn 
 it. ' Where is thy brother V the voice will ask. ' I have 
 made a corpse of him. Lord,' you must reply. 
 
 " Monseigneur," continued the missionary, "I have heard 
 too much of all this not to understand that I have nothing 
 more to do here, even if my departure had not been one of the 
 articles of the treaty. An accident, which I shall henceforth 
 call a providence, caused me to enter this gallery, in order that 
 a priest might not be seen waiting too long in an ante-chamber. 
 An indescribable feeling, which was certainly not curiosity, 
 held me motionless in the shadow. It seemed to me that I 
 felt a hand which paralyzed my movements ; I heard a voice 
 in my heart, which said, ' Remain, listen. Dost thou think 
 that thou understandest men ? Thou dost not yet understand 
 them. Eemain ; God wills that thou shalt see for once what 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 223 
 
 He sees always.' And I remained : I have heard all. And I 
 shuddered to hear what some men can make of this religion 
 of love, support and liberty, of which they call themselves the 
 ministers. I have seen a statesman ready to do anything to 
 remain in place, — I have seen a philosopher abase himself 
 before a Jesuit, — I have seen hatred forgotten, in a common 
 desire for dominion and support. Go on, gentlemen, — go on. 
 You deserve to come to an understanding." 
 
 And he went out. 
 
 But the two others did not go on. A quarter of an hour 
 afterwards, Desmarets was on his way to Versailles. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A CRUSHING DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 But this quarter of an hour had been enough to weaken, 
 almost to efface, the impression of this solemn scene. The 
 confessor of the king was not the man to feel all that there was 
 in the reprimands of Bridaine, truer and more penetrating than 
 the declamations of the sceptics. As much a stranger to the 
 Christian spirit as to that of the philosophers of the day, he 
 scarcely understood better an attack in the name of the gospel, 
 than a sarcasm in the name of reason. 
 
 He accordingly calculated quietly enough, ensconced in his 
 carriage, the results of this visit to Paris. The interests of 
 morality appeared to him to coincide admirably in this affair 
 with those of his order, and with his own. He did not go so 
 far as to imagine that the cause was gained ; for, besides being 
 far from depending seriously upon the support, or even the 
 neutrality, of the duke de Choiseul, he knew very well that 
 such storms as these are not the kind which can be calmed by 
 
224 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 the voice of a minister, or even of a king. But Desmarets had 
 forced this minister, who could hasten the explosion, to tremble 
 for himself He had extorted from him promises which would 
 bind him, at least for a few days ; and these few days, in con 
 summating the disgrace of the marquise, would deprive him 
 of his principal supporter with the king. As to Desmarets 
 himself, he would keep his promises to the duke until the new 
 order of things commenced. He would quiet the king's con- 
 science in regard to him, by representing him as having broken 
 with the fallen favorite ; and thus he would succeed in separat- 
 ing his twc greatest enemies. Things might go on in this way 
 a year, — two years. The king might die ; the Dauphin was 
 under the influence of the Jesuits, and was, notwithstanding, 
 generally liked. France, after having nearly been their tomb, 
 might yet become their stronghold. 
 
 Upon arriving at Versailles, — it was past midnight, — ^Des- 
 marets perceived a light in the king's apartment. 
 
 He at first paid no attention to this. The king generally 
 retired at a late hour. 
 
 However, he had scarcely entered the chateau, before this 
 circumstance again occurred to him. He had not intended to 
 visit the king until the next morning. What if he went im- 
 mediately ] Either the king was in the same mind, and, in 
 that case, this zeal would please him ; or he was wavering, 
 and, in such a case, too much could not be done to strengthen 
 him. 
 
 As he had admittance into all parts of the chateau, he soon 
 arrived at the king's apartments. The valets were, as usual, 
 awaiting his majesty's hour for retiring. 
 
 " The king has not retired 1" he asked. 
 
 " No, my Father." 
 
 "Is he alone f 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 225 
 
 «N),my^ Father." 
 
 " Who is with him ?" 
 
 " Madame la — " 
 
 " Who do you say ?" he interrupted. 
 
 " Madame la Marquise." 
 
 He was terribly pale. He had thought, on his first arrival, 
 that he perceived something more than mere surprise at his 
 arriving so late. One of the valets had smiled ; another had 
 turned away, as if to hide a laugh. Before asking a question, 
 the confessor had guessed the answer. 
 
 He went away. As usual, he was accompanied to the door 
 with great respect ; but scarcely was it closed behind him, 
 before an explosion of stifled laughter completed the downfall 
 of his hopes. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 PALACES OF LOUIS XV. CHOISY. BELLEVUE. 
 
 What had taken place 1 
 
 Let us go back some hours, and look in upon Louis XV. 
 
 The candles are just lighted. It is just about the time when 
 Rabaut reached the house of d'Alembert, and Bridaine that of 
 the archbishops. 
 
 We are in what the court jargon designates as " the little 
 apartments." Little they are in reality, not only in compari- 
 son with the vast extent of the chateau, but also, and more 
 particularly on account of the almost fabulous refinements of 
 luxury and ease with which they have been overloaded by a 
 capricious and wor ■ out king. Louis XIV also had his ; but 
 in his time they were merely called the " private apartments." 
 They were simple, and the king never remained in them long. 
 
 It was in the days of the Regency, that the little apartments, 
 
226 THE PRIEBT AND 
 
 properly speaking, had their origin. The Regent needed them 
 to conceal, — not his amours, in those days no one cared to con- 
 ceal them, — ^but his luxurious suppers, his daily, or rather 
 nightly fits of degrading intoxication. 
 
 From other tastes, Louis XV adopted before he himself 
 became vicious, that which vice had invented. While yet 
 young, he was wearied and alarmed by remaining in those 
 huge galleries, in which his magnificent ancestor had taken such 
 satisfaction, because he was persuaded that his presence filled 
 them. He needed a more home-like circle, and this circle em 
 bellished by the virtues of the queen, had been at first a sanc- 
 tuary which was mitouched by any poisonous breath from 
 without. Louis XV was bom an ennuye, but at that period, 
 he lounged and gaped in his own domestic circle. 
 
 Then came his iinmoralities ; and then, the divinity being 
 changed, the decorations of the temple must also be altered. 
 The taste of the day, moreover, led to this. Luxury had 
 made vast progress ; not that extensive progress which may 
 be connected with the noblest tendencies, — ^but a progress 
 petty in its detail, and petty in its results ; false in art, and 
 dangerous in morals. 
 
 All this progress belonging to a period of decline, was nar 
 turally concentrated in the little apartments of the king. Each 
 month, each week, brought its tribute of rarities and nothings. 
 In order to describe these, we should require a pen made with 
 the mother-of-pearl knife set with pearls, which was so much ad- 
 mired upon the golden writing-desk of Madame de Pompadour. 
 
 Very s^on, as if the neighborhood of the grand apartments 
 oppressed him, the king sent his architects, decorators, 
 and painters to Che isy, enjoining them to out-do themselves. 
 They took him at /Js word. Millions were swallowed in 
 the work, but Choisy had become, in the annals of boudoirs. 
 
THE HUGUEHOT. 227 
 
 one of the wonders of the world. There were seen for the 
 first time, those famous little tables, called servants or waiters, 
 the master-piece of the mechanician Loriot. Thanks to these, 
 importunate, tattling servants, witnesses to the ingenious 
 nightly orgies, were no longer needed. Every guest had his 
 own table. Dishes and wines of all sorts, fruits, pastry, con- 
 fections, all that could be desired or imagined, had but to be 
 written down, and a spring touched. The table disappeared a 
 moment, and returned with what had been sent for. It was 
 something like the Arabian Nights. 
 
 Such was C!hoisy in the time of Louis XV. 
 
 At length even Choisy was thought to be too much like Ver- 
 sailles. It was still a chateau, although so much smaller. The 
 king allowed himself to be persuaded that he must have, as 
 the saying then was, his sugar-plum box. Accordingly, Belle- 
 vwe was built. It rose as if by enchantment. The gardens 
 were designed after the poetical descriptions of the island of 
 Armida, in Ariosto ; the apartments were such, that one might 
 have asked, on entering, what more a fairy could have accom- 
 plished. There Madame de Pompadour was sovereign. The 
 king liked there to be her guest, and to enjoy there, far fi-om 
 all noise, the refinements of luxury which she arranged for 
 him. 
 
 LX. 
 
 THE KING AND HIS CONFIDANT. VOLTAIRe's LETTER. VANITT 
 
 OF RICHELIEU. THE MARQUISE. 
 
 But we were at Versailles. Let us return thither. 
 In a drawing-room of the king's private apartments are 
 seated two men, one on each side of the fire. They are not 
 
228 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 looking at one another, and seem as if they did not care to do 
 so. 
 
 One reclines nearly at full length upon an immense arm-chair. 
 His features are large and majestic, but have a profoundly 
 harassed, wearied expression. He does not appear to enjoy 
 the comfort which is sought and generally found in such a posi- 
 tion as he has taken. 
 
 The other has not seated himself so completely at his ease, 
 but has nevertheless the appearance of being much more so. 
 The immovability of his posture seems, however, to be a 
 wearisome necessity to him. He yawns occasionally, but very 
 quietly, as if he would not like his neighbor to perceive it. 
 
 At length a conversation commences between these two 
 persons. 
 
 " Richelieu." 
 
 " What is your pleasure, sire ?" 
 
 " 1 am so ennxiyeP 
 
 " How can 1 help that, sire f 
 
 Let us remind those whom this tone may surprise, that the 
 duke de Richelieu was the particular friend of Louis XV- 
 He was in public tlie most respectful of courtiers, — in private 
 they were equals. But Richelieu never forgot himself less 
 than in these familiar conversations. What the king took for 
 the most perfect naturalness, was the perfection of art. 
 
 For the last half century the duke de Richelieu had been 
 an epitome of all the good qualities and all the vices of the 
 noblemen of his time. Brave and cunning, proud and mean, 
 noble in his manners, and ignoble in his tastes, he remained, 
 in spite of his age, the man of fashion, the model, whose suc- 
 cessful imitation was looked upon as a desperate undertaking. 
 People were half inclined to treat those as jealous and slander- 
 ous, who ventured to remark that he was sixty-four, that he 
 
THE HUG0ENOT. 229 
 
 dyed his eyebrows, wore rouge, and false hips, and a falst. chest, 
 and false calves. All this was well-known ; in another it would 
 have been looked upon as perfectly ridiculous, yet with him 
 the result was a general effect which was envied by the young- 
 est and handsomest of the court. 
 
 The strangest thing, however, was not that the duke should 
 have employed all these means to rejuvenate himself, but that 
 a man of sense should rely upon them so confidently as he 
 did, and should actually imagine that he was still able to 
 fascinate the women of the court by means of this patching 
 up of his dilapidated person. After the king and the king's 
 favor, he most loved the admiration of the women, and more- 
 over he asserted and believed that they loved him. He 
 boasted of inspiring at sixty, feelings as strong as those which 
 he himself experienced at twenty-five. This was but another 
 means of paying his court to the king. Louis XV. being ten 
 years younger, the conquests of his friend served as a delicate 
 means of promising him ten years longer of youth and triumph. 
 
 A tolerably long pause followed his reply of " How can I 
 help that V He had said it in the tone of a man who declines 
 making any further reply, because he has already given a piece 
 of advice which has been neglected. 
 
 " Eichelieu !" 
 
 " What is it, sire V 
 
 " I tell you that I am horribly ennuye." 
 
 " And I say that I cannot help it." 
 
 " Come, — amuse me." 
 
 "That is just what your ancestor Louis XFV. said to 
 Madame de Maintenon." 
 
 " Well r 
 
 " And Madame de Maintenon replied that he was no longer 
 amusable," 
 
 20 
 
230 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " You are mistaken, Richelieu. No one, not even his mis. 
 tress, and still less his wife,* would have answered Louis 
 XIV. impertinently." - 
 
 " Which signifies, does it not, that I have just answered 
 Louis XV. impertinently 1" 
 
 " Something like it." 
 
 " Then I beg pardon, sire. Madame de Maintenon did not 
 make that answer; be it so. She contented herself with 
 thinking it, — and with saying it to two or three persons, who 
 charitably repeated it to the whole court. Would you rather 
 that I should do thisi" 
 
 " A great piece of news you would tell ! As if all Europe 
 did not know that I was ennuy6 !" 
 
 " At any rate, it was not I who told them." 
 
 " Of course not. Nobody is so much with me as you. To 
 publish abroad that I am ennuye, would be confessing yourself 
 the most tiresome of men." 
 
 " Thank you, sire." 
 
 " Come. Have you nothing at all to relate to me ? Abso- 
 lutely nothing V 
 
 " Why we have just been walking two hours in the gardens. 
 1 have related thousands of things to you. I have exhausted 
 the court, — the city — " 
 
 " Really V 
 
 " It is true that you were scarcely listening to me, and that — 
 but stay ; I forgot to show you something. See here — " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " A little letter from Monsieur de Voltaire." 
 
 " Monsieur de Richelieu, you know that I do nov like that 
 man, or anything connected with him." 
 
 * It ia well known that Madame de Maintenon was his wife for 
 twenty-nine years. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 231 
 
 " So much the more reason, sire, for reading his letter. It 
 will be so much the more diverting to you." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 He put the letter back into his pocket and was silent. A 
 moment after, the king asked, — " What does he say in this letter ?" 
 
 " He gives me a description of himself." 
 
 " That must be curious." 
 
 " Very curious indeed. But as your Majesty absolutely 
 declines seeing it — " 
 
 " O no, — ^not at all. Read it to me." 
 
 " Ah ! your Majesty wishes to be able to say, with a good 
 conscience, that you have not seen it V 
 
 " I am no Jesuit, Richelieu." 
 
 " I know it, sire. There are people, however, who are not 
 so certain of it as- 1 am." 
 
 " What do you mean ]" 
 
 " You can tell a man hy the company he keeps." 
 
 " I keep company with the Jesuits !" 
 
 " No. But those who assert that you do, — will now have 
 fair game — " 
 
 " I have forbidden you to talk to me about these things." 
 
 " ' The king is good,' said the people, in the days of Henry 
 IV ; ' it is a pity that he should have cotton* in his ears.' " 
 
 " Richelieu !" 
 
 " I have done. But others will talk. Your Majesty may 
 depend upon it." 
 
 " Read the letter." 
 
 ■" 'Ferney, July 15, 1760. 
 
 '"It is not likely, Monseigneur, that I should have the im- 
 
 prudence to present myself before you' — " 
 
 * The Jesuit Cotton, his confessor. 
 
232 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Did you actually invite him to come and see you V inter 
 rupted the king. 
 
 " A general invitation, — out of civility." 
 
 "Richelieu, never, so long as I reign, shall that man set foot 
 in Paris " 
 
 This time, the king had aroused himself. In his rare mo- 
 ments of energy and will, he strikingly resembled his redoubta- 
 ble ancestor. The same eyes, the same voice, the same majesty. 
 
 Voltaire had several times already, had the honor of throw- 
 ing him into that state of feverish irritation, when his glance 
 seemed to say, " Am I still king 1" At the sound of that name, 
 which hovered like a ceaseless sarcasm over everything which 
 was, or had been held sacred, the old Bourbon instinctively 
 raised his hand to his crown. He settled it again upon his head, 
 as if he had felt it totter beneath this breath of destruction. 
 
 " He in Paris V resumed the marshal ; " I swear to you that 
 he has not the least desire to be there. He knows too well 
 how much he gains by being heard from a distance ; it gives 
 him a sort of oracular air, and in the eyes of fools, he is greater 
 by the whole distance between Paris and Ferney. Shall I go 
 on?" 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 — " ' before you in the fine state in which I am. All the 
 world talks of your bag-wig, while I am unable to quit my 
 night-cap. All who talk to you, swear that you are at farthest 
 thirty-three or four' — " 
 
 " And how old is he 1" asked the king. 
 
 " Alas ! sire, only two years older than I am. He is sixty 
 six, — I am sixtj'-four. I continue — " 
 
 " ' You do not walk, you run ;' he goes on. ' You are on 
 your legs all day long. You could command an army as gal- 
 lantly as ever' — " 
 
THE HUaUBNOT. 233 
 
 " I should think so, indeed," murmured the marshal. 
 
 But the king did not appear to hear this. It was a subject 
 of much speculation throughout Europe, why Richelieu no 
 longer appeared at the head of the French army, particularly 
 as it was well known that he was more than ever in the good 
 graces of the king. Lous XV. probably had reasons of his own 
 for acting as he did in this respect. 
 
 He resumed ; — " as gallantly as ever. As for me, I could not 
 even act as your secretary, much less as your courier. The 
 reason being, that my spindles, which I call legs, are no longer 
 able to support your humble servant, and that my eyes are en- 
 tirely a la Ghaulieu, being bordered by great red and white 
 wrinkles' — " 
 
 " Stop !" cried the king, " that is enough. Now I shall have 
 that live mummy before my eyes, with his horrible red wrin- 
 kles—" 
 
 " Your Majesty knows very well that Monsieur de Voltaire 
 is by no means as frightful as he makes himself out. He has 
 a mania for being old — " 
 
 " Just as you have for being young. Do you know what I 
 was thinking just now as you were reading ? I was asking 
 myself which of you is the most absurd." 
 
 " Your Majesty is very kind." 
 
 " All things, however, taken into consideration, I believe 
 that he is." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " Yes, — ^but you will soon be ; nature justifies him every day 
 more and more, while she proves you in the wrong. 
 
 " So much the worse for her." 
 
 " Plowever, Monsieur de Voltaire is precisely the person of 
 all oftrrs who understands you best. Not content with 
 laughing at you — " 
 
 20* 
 
234 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " He ! laughing at me ?" 
 
 " And do you not think that he was laughing in his sleeve, as 
 he wrote those lines 1 Ha ! my poor Richelieu, you are still 
 more absurd than I thought. What, you do not comprehend 
 that it is to make his court to you that he describes himself so 
 ugly and you so handsome 1 And do you believe him capable 
 of making his court sincerely to any one ? I tell you that there 
 is no one in the world who would more enjoy a laugh at your 
 bag-wig, your rouge, your patches, your perfumes. Stay, — 
 there is a certain verse — ' Mutton with onion sauce,' — ^you 
 know it without doubt ?" 
 
 " No, sire, I do not." 
 
 " I shall have the pleasure, then, of giving you some informar 
 tion. It is not often I have it. 
 
 " 'Mutton with onion sauce, and lord with muak perfume, 
 For your supper I propose. 
 When Richelieu the gay appeareth in a room, 
 Defend then well 
 
 There is a word which comes next, which escapes my 
 memory — " 
 
 " ' Defend then well your heart' " 
 
 " That is it 
 
 " ' Defend then well your heart, and well protect your nosa" 
 
 " But you have heard the verse, it seems ? I thought you 
 said " 
 
 " I fancied your Majesty alluded to a certain satirical verse." 
 
 " And do you not call that one satirical 1" 
 
 "No, truly. ' Well defend your heart P why it is the finest, 
 eulogium I could covet, sire !" 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 235 
 
 " And ' well protect your nose ?' " 
 
 " Yes ; but why ? Because I am ' with mush perfumed^ the 
 author says. There are many who are not perfumed at all." 
 
 " Come, tell me honestly, when do you intend to leave off 
 being young V 
 
 " Ten years before your Majesty." 
 
 The king shrugged his shoulders and sank back into his arm 
 ;hair. 
 
 Another long silence. Finally the king asked ; 
 
 " Eichelieu, what time is it V 
 
 " Nearly nine o'clock, sire." 
 
 " Nine ! only nine ! And to think that there are people who 
 pretend that time flies !" 
 
 " Time asks nothing better, than to fly, — ^but one must help 
 it a little." 
 
 " Help it, then, for heaven's sake, help it to fly ! Don't 
 you see I am perishing of ennui V 
 
 And the king rose and stamped his foot. 
 
 Richelieu also rose ; for even when they were alone together, 
 it would not have been permitted him to remain seated while 
 the king was standing. But he leaned against the chimney- 
 piece, and made no answer. 
 
 The king walked up and down before him, his head bent 
 forward, his hands behind his back. Suddenly pausing, he 
 looked him full in the face. 
 
 " Richelieu, this cannot last." 
 
 " Can / order it to be put an end to, sire ■?" 
 
 " I have given my word." 
 
 " To a Jesuit !" 
 
 "To a priest." 
 
 " What business had this priest to meddle ?" 
 
 " You know very well that I summoned him." 
 
236 THE PRIKST AND 
 
 " It is perhaps not the wisest thing your Majesty ever did. 
 Much harm it would have done truly, if things had remained 
 as thej have been for the last twenty years." 
 
 " No matter, I have promised." 
 
 "A subject!" 
 
 " No ; my master, — God." 
 
 " The deuce, sire ! If your Majesty takes the matter in this 
 way, I must inform you, beforehand, that you will not receive 
 much from me, in the way of edification. Your majesty is at 
 liberty to edify me, — well and good. So, after to-morrow, the 
 Paro-aux-Cerfs is to be closed." 
 
 "Who says so?" 
 
 " Nobody ; but it is the natural consequence of the delightful 
 state of mind in which I find you. If God is so horribly 
 shocked at your relations with Madame de — " 
 
 " Do not mention that name." 
 
 " Well, — with a certain distinguished lady, then, — why 
 should He, who sees all, be less shocked at your obscure 
 pleasures there 1 So there is no medium, — either you will not 
 be damned at all, or you will be damned just as much for the 
 Parc-aux-Cerfs as for — for the other. Did not Desmarets tell 
 you so V 
 
 " Desmarets never spoke to me save of the marquise." 
 
 " I thought so. That is so like these confessors, the Jesuits 
 particularly ! The outside, always the outside. Correct the 
 faults visible to the eyes of men, or you will be damned. As 
 for those which only God sees, — ^pooh ! do as you will about 
 them. I should like to show them, if I were king. — and, in 
 fact, I show them enough without being king, — I should like to 
 show them, I say, that I am, and intend to be, my own master 
 in the one case as well as in the other, — in public as well as in 
 secret." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 237 
 
 " The marter of one's perdition ? One has that always only 
 too much in one's power." 
 
 " Ah ! sire, — once more, — if you take this tone, I surrender 
 at discretion. Come ; let us leave this rubbish of the confess- 
 ional, and try to simplify the question. Here is a king, — still 
 young — " 
 
 " Hush !" 
 
 "A king who cannot, without danger of perishing 'rom 
 ennui, dispense with the society of a woman whom he loves — " 
 
 " But — ^it is not exactly the case — " 
 
 " Whom he has loved — " 
 
 " If you like it so—" 
 
 " In short, whose company is perfectly indispensable to him. 
 It is insisted upon that he shall send away this woman. She 
 must go, accordingly, — she must depart, her heart swelling 
 with grief, from this palace which has become her home. And 
 the ungrateful — " 
 
 " Bravo, Richelieu ! bravo ! That would be superb in a 
 romance !" 
 
 Little sympathy as the marshal had with the sorrows of a 
 forsaken woman, he could not help being struck with the 
 extreme egotism here displayed. All Louis XV.'s character 
 was contained in this bravo. What mattered it to him whether 
 his mistress wept or not — whether she accused him of weak- 
 ness and ingratitude, or not? It is for his own sake, and that 
 alone, that he concerns himself at all about her. He is ready 
 to think it a good joke that you could imagine it otherwise. 
 Twenty years before, after his illness at Metz, when the public 
 joy was displayed during h'.s journey back, the Duchess de 
 Chateauroux wrote, " He appeared touched. He is, then, 
 susceptible of a tender feeling !" And she had been his mis- 
 tress f r two years. 
 
238 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 "Not at all," replied Kichelieu, in a tone of pique, — "not at 
 all like a romance. But — " 
 
 " Go on," said the king, " go on. What is more natural, 
 after all 1 A vivid imagination, — youth — " 
 
 " Sire, Louis le Grand said that a king should never use 
 raillery." 
 
 " Not even against those -who use it against him 1" 
 
 " Did I do so r 
 
 " What else but raillery was that little idyll of which you 
 just recited the commencement 1" 
 
 " Your majesty confounds me. I did not know that I was 
 so malicious. Accordingly, I will hold my tongue, for fear of 
 being so again." 
 
 " By no means. But come to the point." 
 
 " Well, then, the point is this. Your majesty is ennuye. 
 ~ There is but one person in the world who can amuse you. 
 This person is to go away. And if I were in your place for 
 five minutes — " 
 
 "Well— what?" 
 
 " She should not go." 
 
 " Richelieu, you have been in the Bastile 1" 
 
 " I have, sire." 
 
 " And do you remember what Monsieur the Regent said, 
 ■vtnen he sent you there ?" 
 
 "Monsieur the Regent did me the honor to say, that if I had 
 four heads reason enough could be found to cut off all of them." 
 
 " And if you had six now, you ought to lose them all, for 
 daring to give me such a piece of advice." 
 
 " Alas, sire ! 1 have but one, and that is entirely at your 
 service. But before you cut it off, I wish you would permit 
 it to perform one of those masterpieces of sagacity which it is 
 said to execute — not badly. May 1 1" 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 239 
 
 He was already at the door. The king laughed, but with 
 the air of a man who laughs in order not to be obliged to speak 
 seriously. 
 
 "Monsieur de Voltaire is right," he said; "you do not 
 walk, — you fly." 
 
 "I will fly. Mayir 
 
 He raised liis hand to turn the latch. 
 
 " You are but thirty -three or thirty -four — " 
 
 " Twenty-four, if you like. But may I ? Yes." 
 
 And he opened the door. 
 
 " Richelieu ! Richelieu !" cried the king, springing forward 
 to detain him. 
 
 But Richelieu was already at som.e distance. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 THE CONSCIENCE OF LOUIS XV. 
 
 Then he slowly returned to the same place, and seated 
 himself Relieved that the precipitation of the old duke had 
 spared him the trouble of ordering that which his conscience 
 told him he ought not to wish, still the acquiescence he had 
 showed in the plan was not without bitterness. It was not 
 exactly a feeling of remorse, but rather a consciousness of his 
 own weakness. He reflected, but not so much,^" I am doing 
 wrong," — as, " I can do, can will nothing." He looked upon 
 the pleasures about to be restored to him as something im- 
 posed upon him by destiny, — which was bent upon making of 
 him a sluggard king — a man at the mercy of any one who 
 might determine to lead him ; and although he had never 
 seriously sought to emerge from this abyss, still his heart 
 sank witnin him, when, from time to time, some circumstance 
 led him to appreciate its depth. 
 
240 THE PBIBST AND 
 
 Motionless, his eyes fixed, and his hands joined, he waited. 
 But in vain might his heart been probed to discover any of those 
 ardent impulses, which are used sometimes, in order to give 
 to a fault committed, the excuse of passion. " He worlied out 
 his perdition quite coolly," said Duclos. This thought, although 
 he did not understand it so clearly, accompanied him in the 
 midst of all his immoralities. That vague vexation which one 
 feels after having paid very dear for some useless or trouble- 
 some object, was almost constantly experienced by him. He 
 felt the responsibility of the evil, and yet did not enjoy it, he 
 plucked the forbidden fruit, and found that it had no flavor; 
 
 Still somewhat impressed by the religious sentiments which 
 had been occupying his mind for some days, these ideas took 
 a more serious tinge than usual. If it was not remorse which 
 he felt, it was something more resembling it than usual. 
 Never had he felt the void so great, the burden so heavy. 
 
 " She is coming," he murmured, " and I shall receive her. 
 And the whole thing will begin again. What a chain ! What 
 a life ! And then — at the end of it — oh God !" 
 
 He shuddered. He covered his face with his hands, as if to 
 shut out some horrible apparition. 
 
 " But why — " he resumed, as if angry — '' why so many 
 temptations 1 What have 1 done to deserve being placed in 
 the midst of so many dangers ? No, — I shall not be weighed 
 in the same balance with others. No, no. God would not be 
 just." 
 
 He rose, as he said these words, like a prisoner defying his 
 judge. Suddenly, he appeared to reflect deeply. A smile, 
 nervous and forced, appeared upon his lips. 
 
 " God " — he murmured, — '' always God." 
 
 Then lower still, as if he feared to hear himself, or to evoke 
 an avenging phantom, he said — 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 241 
 
 " What do I know of Him 1 What does any one know of 
 Him V 
 
 This was not the first time he had endeavored to gain from 
 impiety, the peace which was equally denied him by religion 
 and vice, — ^by vice, because it cannot bestow such peace, — by 
 religion, because she will not bestow it upon the vicious. He 
 was not acquainted with the works of the infidels, and did not 
 even allow them to be spoken of in his presence, but he had a 
 general idea of the tendency of the negations of the day, 
 enough at least to make him, when the thought of God an 
 noyed him, secretly attempt not -to believe in such a being. His 
 belief, moreover, rested upon no solid foundation, — ^no serious 
 study ; it was with him an affair of tradition, habit, etiquette, — 
 a vague necessity at furthest. If he had paid no attention to 
 the roarings of infidelity, it was rather from idleness than from 
 any horror or disdain. Such as his religion had been given 
 him, he allowed it to remain ; the idea of losing it, would have 
 been less alarming to him than that of examining into it. He 
 detested the encyclopedists, but because he looked upon them 
 as troublesome fellows who would have done better to let the 
 world go on its own way, and follow the crowd quietly. He 
 persecuted those who were not Catholics, but much less from 
 hatred of their doctrines, than from a horror of hearing the 
 discussion of questions which he did not care to comprehend. 
 How many men resemble him in this ! How many rigorous 
 anti-Protestants are there, who are within an ace of believing 
 nothing at all ! 
 
 Accordingly, from time to time he overstepped this narrow 
 space between his persecuting religion and the infidelity of the 
 day. But it was only by fits and starts ; too weak and hesi- 
 tating to be a Christian, he was also too much so to be an in- 
 fidel. He soon sank back into his slumber ; a bitter feeling of 
 
 21 
 
242 THE PRIEST IND 
 
 discouragement being the only impression left by his perilous 
 attempt. 
 
 Thus it was this evening, during the short absence of his 
 not ovsr-scrupulous conficlant. After having felt vexation, 
 mortification, anger, and rebellion by turns, he again sank back 
 into himself, he was again himself, the Louis XV. of the last 
 twenty years, the cold lover awaiting the approach of her who 
 no longer awakened a feeling in his heart, but whose dominion 
 had become a necessity, and, as it were, one of the conditions 
 of his existence. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 MADAME DE POMPADOUR. THE KINg's INDIFFERENOE TO HIS 
 
 FAMILY. 
 
 At length she arrived. He received her as if nothing had 
 taken place between them. 
 
 And yet she had not been able to see without emotion the 
 return of her master's messenger ; the return we say, for it 
 had been through him that she had received the news of her dis 
 grace. They had never been the best of friends, but this was 
 rather from distrust than antipathy. Mutually jealous of their 
 intimacy with the king, each calculated in secret, the injury 
 which the other could do him, and each found in this exam 
 iuation plenty of reasons for holding aloof. The duke felt 
 that if she took it into her head to deprive him of the king's 
 favor, it was by no means impossible that she might succeed ; 
 and she, on her side, was aware that it was quite as possible 
 that Richelieu might dethrone a favorite whose only tie was 
 that of habit. However, what rendered her most uneasy, — 
 her forty years, — was precisely the thing which in fact assured 
 her the neutrality, or in time of necessity, the aid of the 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 243 
 
 marshal. If sie were dethroned, another would in all pro- 
 bability take her place. Who would this- other be 1 Un- 
 doubtedly a much younger person, and one much less disposed 
 to remain on good terms with him. It was accordingly greatly 
 to his own interest that he should endeavor to prolong the 
 famous friendship so praised by the abbe de Narniers. A 
 friend of the king wa's but his equal ; a mistress would un- 
 questionably surpass him in influence. 
 
 Accordingly, he had not scrupled, on being sent with the 
 first messagb, to soften its severity, — so much the more because 
 he called to mind the disgrace, three years before, of Monsieur 
 de Machault for having been too rigid in acquitting himself of a 
 similar commission. His hints, as may well be imagined, had 
 been eagerly followed. It had been agreed to hasten nothing, 
 to avoid any violent rupture, and to wait patiently until the 
 king should be brought round by ennui. And, as we have 
 seen, ennui had faithfully performed its part. 
 
 The marquise had remained at the chateau, awaiting, she 
 said, a formal dismissal. And this had been regarded by the 
 courtiers as so very uncertain, even as so unlikely, that her 
 court had in the mean time, suffered no diminution. Although 
 she might be nothing to the king, she had held the sway too 
 long not to have made for herself a sort of sovereignty, inde- 
 pendent of the crowned royalty of a king like Louis XV. 
 Louis XV was not capable of wresting from her at one blow, 
 as did Louis XIV from Madame de Montespan, the power of 
 which he had allowed her to become possessed ; he could only 
 have done it by seizing himself with a firm hand the reins of 
 ijovernment, and this was an effort of which he was utterly in- 
 capable. It was felt that he would never be able actually to 
 deprive her of her sceptre, and that accordingly, so long as she 
 was not replaced, they ran no risk in treating her as a sovereign. 
 
344 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 And yet in this same palace, forgotten, almost unknown, 
 lived a woman, — a queen, whose modest virtues formed a sin- 
 gular contrast to so many glaring viees. A strange fate was 
 that of tlie queens of these two monarchs of ^France, so differ- 
 ent in most respects, hut so sadly alike in their immorality ! 
 History scarcely mentions them ; contemporary biographers 
 have more to say of the king's mistress in six months, than of 
 his wife in twenty years. Scarcely have you beheld the pomp- 
 ous ceremony of her marriage, before you lose sight of her ; 
 you are only reminded of her again by finding, some twenty 
 years after, a casual mention of her death. " This," remarks 
 Louis XIV. " is the only sorrow she ever caused me." Alas ! 
 was it indeed a sorrow 1 It made no alteration in the state, — 
 none even in the court. She occupied no place there, — what 
 void could her death leave ? 
 
 The king extended this indifference to his daughters. The 
 death of one of them, the duchess of Parma, had profoundly 
 affected him, but only as a warning to himself. He had not 
 wept his daughter, but himself in her. All of them had, from 
 their inflmey, been the victims of this absolute egotism. Born 
 at the period of the cardinal de Fleury's great plans of economy, 
 (1730 — 1735) they had been brought up in a convent in one 
 5f the provinces, where they had been complete!}- spoiled by 
 alternations from the extreme of indulgence, to the most ex- 
 aggerated severity.* Upon their return to Versailles, the king 
 did not insist upon their taking part in his amusements, but he 
 never dreamed of procuring them others. Their only prom- 
 enade was the garden of the chutcau. They loved flowers, but 
 all they had were in vases upon the window seats, like the 
 workwomen of Paris. They scarcely ever went out, and 
 
 * They were frequently punished by imprLsonment in the funeral 
 vault3 of the convent. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 245 
 
 thanks to the strictness of etiquette, the ordinary occurrences 
 of life remained almost entirely unknown to them. When 
 the younger of them took the veil at the carmelite convent of 
 St. Denis, she confessed that one of the most disagreeable 
 things which she encountered in her new life, was the being 
 obliged to go up and down a little winding staircase. 
 
 And yet Louis XV., like Louis XIV., had always professe da 
 great esteem for the mother of his children. He left her en- 
 tirely at liberty, which was more than his predecessor had 
 done. When he was obliged to appear with her in public, the 
 most devoted husband could not have showed more respect. 
 Apart from that, there was the most complete separation, and 
 this state of things had become such a matter of course, that 
 although there was always much speculation on the probable 
 results of a rupture with the titular mistress, — no one ever 
 dreamed of fancying that it might result in a reconciliation 
 with the queen. The king himself never appeared to dream 
 of such a thing, and as the remembrance of the queen had been 
 entirely without influence upon his late plans of amendment, it 
 could not be a motive to induce him to persist in them. 
 
 LXIIL 
 
 OLD HABITS. VOLTAIRe's DEDICATION OF TANCRED. RICHELIEu's 
 
 ORTHOGRAPHY. ^A NEW WORD. 
 
 When she perceived that his manner to her was just as 
 usual, Madame de Pompadour understood that hers also should 
 b« so, and that the best means of securing her return to favor, 
 was to behave as if she had never fancied herself in disgrace. 
 
 On the other hand, however, she must not appear altogether 
 as if she had not suffered. But here she had but to wait anrl 
 
 21* 
 
240 THE PRIEST 4ND 
 
 see what the king would do and say. She knew him well 
 enough to follow his impressions step by step, and never to be 
 above or below what he might require. 
 
 " Come, Madame, come — " Richelieu had said when he in- 
 troduced her into the apartment. " His Majesty is ennuye, 
 and so I lose my Latin." (Idiomatic. To have one's trouble 
 for one's pains.) 
 
 " Then, Monsieur, you do not lose much," she replied, as she 
 made her salutation to the king. 
 
 And the king burst into a laugh, charmed with this diver- 
 sion, which deprived her return of all embarrassment, for the 
 old duke's ignorance in regard to classical matters had long 
 been proverbial at court, and his most trifling notes, replete 
 with errors, proved that he was not much better acquainted 
 with French than with Latin. Moreover, he was a member of 
 the academy. 
 
 After having laughed twice as heartily as the others, firstly 
 to show that he felt the point of the joke, and secondly to prove 
 that he was not at all chagrined by it, he was about discreetly 
 to take his departure, and had nearly reached the door, when 
 the marquise and the king, both equally anxious that his 
 presence should'permit them to dispense with all explanations, 
 begged him to remain. 
 
 "If his ^Majesty commands — " 
 
 " Certainly I do." 
 
 And the king with unwonted energy, drew forward two arm 
 cliairs, made a sign to the duke to take a third, and to the 
 marquise to scat herself. Then as he took his seat, he said, — 
 
 " Ha ! what are we about here ? Drawing around a fire- 
 place with no fire in it !" 
 
 And in truth they had done so. 
 
 " Habit, sire—" 
 
THE lUGUENOT. 247 
 
 "Yes,— habit— " 
 
 And he placed his feet upon the irons. 
 
 " Habit — " he resumed, as if speaking to himself, — " habit, — 
 a great tyrant in truth. Because one has warmed one's self in 
 a certain place for six months, one wishes to do so still. One 
 always returns to the same spot. Nothing is changed. Only 
 the fire is wanting." 
 
 He sighed. • 
 
 His allusion became too plain. This time, in place of show- 
 ing that he understood, Richelieu did his best to look uncon- 
 scious. But the marquise said, in a somewhat dry tone, 
 
 " Your majesty is very much of a philosopher." 
 
 "Who'? II" he said quickly. "Were you listening'? 
 What did I say 1 Bah ! let us talk of something else. Even 
 if there is no fire, we will fancy there is. There, — come, now, — 
 let us have one of those nice winter chats which you know so 
 well how to manage." 
 
 But she did not reply. 
 
 " Come, marshal," he continued, " tell Madame what the old 
 man at Ferney has been writing you. You know she doats 
 upon him, — which makes me horribly jealous. Show him to 
 her as he has depicted himself" 
 
 " He has shown himself better here, sire, I fancy, than in his 
 letter to Monsieur. Read this, — I received it this morning." 
 
 " Peste ! Madame. A tragedy in five acts. An epistle 
 dedicatory. And all this came, you say '? — " 
 
 " This morning." 
 
 " What ! while you were — " 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 " Your majesty was about to say in disgrace." 
 
 ' He ventured — " 
 
248 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " But he is at Ferney, sire, I imagine. And this book must 
 have left there five or six days ago." 
 
 " True, true. Yoi are right." 
 
 It was very evidei dy the case ; but the king was none the 
 less struck, in spite of himself, with the fact of this homage 
 arriving at such a time. He was almost shocUed to see that 
 even chance came in to aid his mistress in maintaining the 
 influential position of which he had just tried to deprive her. 
 But suddenly another idea occurred to him. 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" he said, rubbing his hands, " I should like well 
 to be at Ferney !" 
 
 "Why, sire?" 
 
 " To see how crest-fallen he will look ; for without doubt 
 there is some letter now on its way, which will inform him 
 what has taken place here, and how his dedication — " 
 
 " Was directed to one who should no longer receive such 
 attentions. That was what your majesty wished to say, — was 
 it not V 
 
 " How he will long to run after it ! How he will regret 
 his sticks which he calls legs !" 
 
 "His—?" 
 
 " ! nothing. It is one of the witty conceits of his letter 
 to Kichelieu. Come, let us have this dedication." 
 
 She handed it to him, not without pride. Voltaire was the 
 dispenser of fame. He could do more by a few lines, than a 
 king with his treasures and titles. Had not a pope* been 
 proud and happy to receive the honor now bestowed upon the 
 marquise ? 
 
 It was not that she was ignorant how far Voltaire was from 
 always expressing the same sentiments in regard to her. She 
 might have replied to all these charming lines just received, by 
 * Hened/dt XIV., to whom he had dedicated his Mahomet. 
 
THE HUOCENOT. 249 
 
 quoting to him various epigrams of whicb he was well known 
 to be the author ; and at the very moment when his homage 
 took the elevated form of a dedication, who had not "ead what 
 this same man said of her in the vile poem which the parlia- 
 ment had just condemned to be bumf?* 
 The king t, ok the book, and read : 
 
 ' 'TANCRED, OR CHIVALRY: 
 
 " ' TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 '■ ' To Madame the marquise de Pompadour. 
 
 " ' Madame, — Every epistle dedicatory does not contain 
 servile flattery ; all are not dictated by interest — ' " 
 
 But the king did not like to read. " Here, Richelieu," he 
 said, " read me this." 
 
 " ' all are not dictated by interest — ' " 
 
 " Oh ho !" cried the king. " What was that parchment 
 which you got me to sign last month? It contained some- 
 thing, if I remember aright, about an exemption from taxes 
 for his estates of Ferney." 
 
 This was true ; and the dedication was connected with vari- 
 ous other matters in which the author needed the services of 
 Madame de Pompadour. He had got wind particularly of a 
 plot against his piece which was to be performed in the be- 
 ginning of September, and consequently hastened to put it 
 under powerful protection. His correspondence about this 
 time is filled with the most curious confessions ; but the most 
 curious of all is the naivete, — we had almost said the sincerity, 
 
 * " Telle plutot cette heureuse grisette 
 Que la nature ainsi que 1' art forma 
 Pour le serail, on bien pour 1' opera." 
 
 La Pucelle. Edition of \!J5&. 
 
250 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 with which he persuades himself that nothing could be more 
 noble and disinterested than this dedication. He writes : 
 
 " How do you like my little pompadourian epistle 1 Am I 
 not very dignified ? Is there anything in it of the dejected Ovid? 
 Do I seem like an exile ? Do I descend to ask any favors V 
 Tliis to his friend the count d'Argental. Far from fancying 
 that he solicits anything, he is only afraid that people will be 
 too much struck by his pride. He wrote, some days after : 
 "Madame de Pompadour must have been very chicken-hearted 
 to be frightened at my proud dedication." He did not under- 
 stand that servility is frequently only the more complete 
 because it puts on a haughty air. The more you pretend not 
 to be soliciting anything, the more you are humiliated, in 
 reality, in the eyes of the person who is perfectly well aware 
 that you are doing so. 
 
 " Go on," said the king. 
 
 " ' are not dictated by interest. I have observed since 
 
 your childhood the development of your grace and talent, and 
 have been treated by you, in all circumstapces, with unvarying 
 kindness. If any censorious person should blame me for the 
 homage I render 3'ou, it can only be one with a naturally 
 ungrateful heart. I owe you much, Madame, and I am bold 
 to confess it. And I venture still farther, — I venture to render 
 you thanks thus publicly for the kindness you have shown to 
 a groat number of literary men, great artists, and men of merit 
 of various kinds. I am aware that there are terrible cabals 
 going on ' — ' 
 
 " There we are !" interrupted the king. " I was surprised 
 that we had heard nothing yet of his gout and his misfortunes. 
 Cabals ! Have you read the Ecossaise, marquise V 
 
 " No, sire." 
 
THE HXTBUENOT. 251 
 
 This was false. She it was who had been the means of 
 authorizing its performance. 
 
 " Nor I," said the king ; " but it appears that it is an 
 abominable production. If all the evil said of him for the last 
 thirty years were collected, it would not equal the half of the 
 ribaldry and abuse with which he persecutes Freron from the 
 beginning to the end of it. And he complains of cabals ! But 
 so on." 
 
 " ' that there are terrible cabals going on. Literary 
 
 men, like statesmen, will always be calumniated ; and I con- 
 fess that my disgust for these cabals has induced me to take 
 refuge in this retreat ' — " 
 
 " A fine retreat, in faith," interrupted the king again, " to 
 which all Europe makes a pilgrimage, and where a man writes 
 the Ecossaise ! He is amusing himself at your expense, mar- 
 quise, as he did at yours, Richelieu. Come, perhaps he will 
 laugh a little at me too ! Go on." 
 
 " ' to take refuge in this retreat, which alone can bestow 
 
 happiness. But I must confess, that you have never paid any 
 attention to those little cliques ; and accordingly, I have never 
 met with any literary man, nor any unprejudiced person, who 
 does not do justice to your character, not only in public but also 
 in private discussions, where it is much more the custom to 
 blame than to praise. Believe me, Madame, it is something 
 to possess the good opinion of men who know how to think ' — " 
 
 " Ah ! good — know how to think. That is sublime. An- 
 other of their cant phrases. Once upon a time people simply 
 thought ; now-a-days, they know how to think, they learn how 
 to think, — ^like Lauraguais. Did you hear of my adventure 
 with him ?" 
 
 " No, sire." 
 
 " Tell her about it, Richelieu." 
 
252 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Monsieur de Lauraguais, just arrived from England, mado 
 his appearance yesterday at Versailles. He did his best to 
 attract the king's attention, and the king did his best to look 
 as if he did not see him — " 
 
 " Ah ! Richelieu, you color it too highly." 
 
 " Is it false, sire f 
 
 " Go on, go on." 
 
 " Well, by dint of various mancEuvres, de Lauraguais at 
 length forced the . king to remark him. ' There you are, 
 count,' said his Majesty. ' "Whence do you come V ' From 
 England, sire.' ' And what have you been doing there V 
 ' Learning to think.' [Penser, to think, — and panser, to rub 
 down a horse, — are pronounced in the same way, although 
 spelt differently.) ' Ah ! learning to rub down [panser) horses, 
 without doubt,' replied the king, turning his back on him. 
 The point of the story is, that before turning philosopher, 
 Monsieur de Lauraguais thought of nothing but horses, and 
 the care of his stables. So with the two meanings of the word 
 penser — " 
 
 " What do you say, Richelieu ?" 
 
 " The two meanings of the word penser — " 
 
 " The word penser has two meanings V 
 
 " AVhy, sire, you yourself — " 
 
 " And how do you spell this word penser which has two 
 meanings V 
 
 " p_E-N-S— " 
 
 " Bravo ! Ha ! ha ! Good ! This is better than my joke 
 against the poor count ! P-E-N ! — P-E-N ! — " 
 
 " When your Majesty has laughed sufficiently, — I shall be 
 glad to know the reason." 
 
 "Man thinks, {peiise,) my dear duke,"' said the marquise, 
 " but one rubs down (panse) horses, — spelt with an A." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 253 
 
 " Pooh ! so much fuss about nothing !" 
 
 "You thmk sol" said the king. "Very true,— a king of 
 France who sets to work to teach orthography — " 
 
 " Louis-le-Grand would never have done it." 
 
 " Because he knew nothing about it himself, my dear duke." 
 
 " Neither did those noble chevaliers of other days, who 
 signed their parchments with the hilts of their swords, know 
 anything about it, — " 
 
 " True, but they were not members of the academy." 
 
 " Sire ! sire ! I have never seen you so malicious." 
 
 " Well, well, we will stop there. Go on." 
 
 It was partly from choice that Eichelieu remained at sword's 
 points with orthography. He pretended to look upon it as 
 something too plebeian ; he wished, whOe speaking, and even 
 writing tolerably well, to retain a little resemblance to the 
 glorious dunces of the ages gone by. Thus it was that he af- 
 fected to blunder over plebeian names, while he found no diffi- 
 culty in remembering the most complicated patronymics of the 
 aristocratic families. He pretended, for mstance, not to be 
 able to recall whether the abbe Arnaud, one of his colleagues 
 of the academy, was called Arnaud or Renaud. 
 
 He went on reading. 
 
 " ' Of all the arts which we cultivate in France, the art of 
 
 tragedy is not the least deserving of public attention, for it 
 must be confessed that it is the style in which the French have 
 most distinguished themselves. Moreover, it is only at the 
 theatre that the nation meets together '— " 
 
 " Come, now," cried the king, " it is not in order to jest, that 
 I interrupt you this time. I seems to me that these gentlemen, 
 If they do respect orthography, begin singularly to alter the 
 meanings of words. My subjects Ijave become citizen s ; my 
 people they call the people, the nation, — a something which 
 
 22 
 
354 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 « 
 
 forms a body, which thinks, which wills. Where, pray, s 
 this body 1 Are we still at Athens ? Ah ! ' the nation meets to- 
 gether iit the theatre !' I confess that I did not suspect it. And 
 pray inform me, what is the nation, where there is a king V 
 
 " That is what Monseigneur the Regent said one day to the 
 English ambassador Lord Stair." 
 
 " And Lord Stair replied 1 — " 
 
 " The nation is nothing, — so long as there is no standard 
 raised." 
 
 " And every standard, in France, would necessarily be an 
 insurrectionary one." 
 
 " Unless you raise it yourself, sire." 
 
 " And against whom, if you please ? Henry III. endeavored 
 to proclaim himself chief of the league, and the league de- 
 voured Henry III. If I should forget myself so far as to force 
 myself to head the crusade which is preached at the present 
 day, do you think that my throne would be the more solid for 
 it t No ! no ! While I reign, there is no nation ! And woe 
 to him who should assert the contrary !" 
 
 "Shall I go on ?" asked Richelieu. 
 
 " No, — enough of this." 
 
 He took the book from him, and threw it upon the table. 
 The spectre of the nation had terrified the king. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 NEW WORDS AND IDEAS. 
 
 And from that period, this spectre approached with aston- 
 ishing boldness. The words country and citizen, banished for 
 so long a time into ancient history, had re-appeared upon the 
 modern horizon. They were now found proceeding from all 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 255 
 
 pens, sometimes with their old and noble meaning, hut more 
 generally with an odd mixture of the ideas of the day. It was 
 no easy matter, in fact, especially since the time of Louis XIV., 
 to understand,* and still more difficult to use them well. The 
 language of liberty cannot be taught by books ; it is necessary 
 to live where it is the spoken language. And yet it may be 
 learned incorrectly, even by those living in the midst of a 
 people who speak it. The French who went to England a 
 century ago for the purpose of studying it, were often those 
 who made the worst use of it upon their return to France. 
 Even those who had the most command of it, Montesquieu 
 and Rousseau, how many errors they committed ! How much 
 too vague, or else too limited, were their definitions ! What 
 inaccuracies, into which our shallowest journalists could not 
 fall ! Even if everything could have been safely spoken out, 
 there were many things which would have lacked clearness of 
 expression, which would have been awkwardly explained ; 
 how much more natural then, that many things should be very 
 incomprehensible, when the writers were obliged to avoid the 
 censor's shears, or the claws of the king's servants. But the 
 more facts were veiled, the more prodigal were these writers 
 of words, and beneath the words Louis XV. perceived the 
 facts. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 BANISH THOUGHT. 
 
 But he was not a man to dwell long upon one idea, pai- 
 
 ticularly an unpleasant one. 
 
 " Suppose we have supper f he said. 
 
 *If they had been thoroughly understood, would people have ven- 
 tured to employ them 3 " The French," said Rousseau, " use familiarly 
 
256 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Willingly, sire. But your Majesty must be satisfied witL 
 very simple fare. I had not hoped " 
 
 This was not true. Before coming to the king, she had 
 ordered, in case of need, one of those delicate little repasts with 
 which she was in the habit of regaling him. But it must not 
 appear too plainly that she had counted on him. 
 
 " No," said the king, " not in your apartments, — at least not 
 to-day. We will sup here. Eichelieu, go and give orders." 
 
 " Let me arrange that," she replied. " I will return in five 
 minutes.'' And she was there in five minutes ; in five more 
 the table was spread. Two confidential valets charged with 
 the arrangement of these suppers covered it with little ragouts, 
 which had certainly no appearance of having been prepared 
 in less than a quarter of an hour. Tlie king had a certain 
 mocking smile upon his lips, which the marquise observed not 
 without uneasiness. 
 
 At length, the irresistible influence of so many tempting 
 odors, turned this smile to a laugh. The " old man" had at 
 length resumed his sway. 
 
 " Good," he said, seating himself, " good ! The fairy has 
 again found her wand. Say but the word, behold a supper ap- 
 pears ! Come, what am I to take 1" 
 
 " A little of everything, sire." 
 
 " Good ! a little of every thing. Set down, Eichelieu." 
 
 " Your Majesty permits " 
 
 " No, I order. Long life to our little suppers ! Give me 
 wine, Richelieu." And he ate and drank and laughed and 
 talked with school-boy gaiety. 
 
 Midnight found him still talking and laughing, eating and 
 
 this title of citizer, because they have no true idea of its signification : 
 otherwise, they would bo guilty, in taking it, of high-treason." 
 
 Note to the " Gontral Social. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 257 
 
 drinking. And when Desmarets arrived, as we have seen, he 
 was still eating and drinking, talking and laughing. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, Eichelieu conducted the marquise 
 back to her apartments. And towards one o'clock, if his medi- 
 tations had conducted him to that side of the park, Desmarets 
 might have seen a man pass enveloped in a cloak and accom- 
 panied still by Richelieu. 
 
 It was his Majesty on his way to the Parc-aux-Oerfs. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 THE ANXIOUS ABBE. TOILETTE. RECEPTIONS. 
 
 Grea: aad been the anxiety of the courtiers during the last 
 fe'vr days. Without deserting the marquise they were con- 
 stantly on the look out for the moment when it would be 
 necessary to do so. They did not wish either to compromise 
 themselves with her, or on her account with the king. 
 
 But the most uneasy of all had been our abbe of Meaux. 
 The others could await the course of events which should direct 
 their decision ; but he knew the day and hour when he would 
 be obliged in spite of himself to decide. Summoned by the 
 marquise herself to the situation of which he was about to com. 
 menoe the duties, what figure would he present if she were dis- 
 graced, in that pulpit to which she had given him access % And 
 the sermon, moreover 1 The simplest plan would have been 
 to choose another without allusions, without compliments, a real 
 sermon in fact, which should have no connection with these 
 miserable affairs. But where should he get this sermon ? 
 True, he had a dozen, but none of them appeared worthy to be 
 preached on his "irst appearance at court, and he could not in- 
 dure the idea ol throwing aside that which he had so labored, 
 
 22* 
 
258 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 polished and studied. M jreover, something assured him that 
 his protectress was not permanently in disgrace, that she was 
 to be restored to favor, and that in being the first in a public 
 discourse to salute the re-establishment of her power, he should 
 secure her undying gratitude. But in order that this should 
 happen, the revolution must take place before Sunday ; and 
 how could it be hastened 1 
 
 At the time of his adventure in the cathedral of Meaux, he 
 was ignorant of the whole matter. He had a rendezvous with 
 his protectress the next morning in the little church where she 
 came to confess. It was then that he had been made acquaint- 
 ed with it, not by herself, for she had not come, but by her 
 confidante the countess de Rion. He had set out immediately 
 for Versailles, had seen the marquise and increased his own 
 uneasiness. 
 
 It was accordingly with the greatest delight that he learned 
 upon revisiting her in the evening, that the king had sent for 
 her. He wrote immediately to his uncle to announce the good 
 news, and to beg him to be at Versailles without fail on Sun- 
 day. 
 
 The next morning about eleven o'clock, he presented himself 
 at Mailame de Pompadour's door. Madame was at her toilette, 
 which in our day would indicate that she was not to be seen. 
 A.t that time, however, it was precisely the opposite. The hour 
 < f the toilette was the hour of reception, and of a reception 
 which was nearly public. However slightly you might be 
 acipainted with a lady, you were privileged to see her at this 
 hour ; you might e\en introduce one of your friends. 
 
 The dressing room of a fashionable woman was a sort of 
 temple, where, as Marivaux said, " people went to burn in 
 cense upon the altar of the graces." It was accordingly th(j 
 rendezvous of all those who had, or thought they had something 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 259 
 
 to lay upon this altar. Around the divinity of the place chat 
 and move about pell-mell, young noblemen, foppish abbes, and 
 waning beaux. She is seated before a pier-glass all gc kl and 
 lace, which is supported by two of these puffing cupids, designed 
 by Boucher, who seemed to think that they could not be made 
 too fat and chubby. Upon a table with curved legs inlaid with 
 ivory, gold and pearls, was spread a store of mother-of-pearl 
 combs, silky brushes, and perfumes of every color and kind ; 
 but from the table to the smallest boxes, from the huge arm 
 chairs to the smallest footstools, all was ungraceful from excess 
 of splendor, all petty from excess of art. The curtains were 
 so heavy that they looked as if sculptured in wood ; the car- 
 pets so thick that one felt as if treading the thick turf of a park. 
 
 Reclining coquettishly upon her white satin couch, her fan in 
 her hand and her little spaniel upon her knee, Madame receives 
 the homage of the visitors without moving. She listens, and 
 all are silent in order also to listen to the favored one whom 
 she thus honors ; she speaks, and all are hushed to hear what 
 she will deign to remark. Most generally, however, she says 
 but little. A smile to that one, a word to this, — no more. It 
 is already well known that she is witty; still better known 
 that she is beautiful. That is sufficient. In the evening she 
 will chat gaily, but in the morning she adopts the immova- 
 bility of a goddess, the laconism of an oracle. 
 
 This generally lasts for two hours, for the waiting women 
 have orders to prolong their operations as long as Madame 
 does not appear fatigued, and there is a sufficient number of 
 spectators. It must be remembered that all these spectators 
 were men. A lady of quality never was present at the public 
 toilette of another, unless this other were a queen or a princess. 
 It was a homage which men alone could pay, like all the other 
 duties of gallantry, without humiliation, without consequences. 
 
260 THE PKIEST AND 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 TOILETTE OF MADAME DE POMPADOUK. 
 
 (, f all the toilette receptions of the day, that of Madame de 
 Poi.ipadour was naturally the most fashionable. Even ladies 
 attended it as they did those of the princesses, though with 
 much more eagerness. Artists and poets there jostled great 
 lords. The great lords there saw the king, and the king found 
 himself less ennuye there than elsewhere. 
 
 On this particular occasion, the great question was to know 
 whether he would make his appearance. The public inaugura- 
 tion of the power resumed the preceding evening was expected 
 with anxiety. The marquise had heard from Eichclieu that 
 the king had risen this morning out of humor, irresolute, dis- 
 satisfied with his evening, and that precisely because he had 
 been well amused, — for he seemed vexed at himself that he 
 was no longer able to find happiness save at the expense of his 
 conscience. She feared a sudden relapse. Her eyes wandered 
 often and involuntarily towards the door which she hoped to 
 see opened for the king, and more than once she encountered 
 other glances turned in the same direction. 
 
 The appearance of the abbe de Narniers, who had been the 
 subject of thought to more than one of those present, caused a 
 sensation. The crowd opened before him. He came forward 
 with a well-satisfied countenance and a joyful heart. Did he 
 not behold his protectress in the midst of a court more numer- 
 ous and more brilliant than ever 1 And yet he observed that 
 she had an uneasy expression. What was tlie matter 1 he 
 asked himself in a fright. 
 
 The duke de Ri helieu, the prince de Conde, the dukes de 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 261 
 
 Coigny, de la ValliSre, de Gesvres, and de la Tremouille, with 
 some others, and a few ladies besides, had, according to cus- 
 tom, gathered around her in a privileged circle. This circle, 
 upon each new arrival, opened in order to permit a salutation 
 to Madame ; but if the new comer were not one of the usual 
 intimates, or a man of very high rank, it closed again imme- 
 diately, unless Madame herself entered into conversation with 
 him. In this case, were he but a poor poet, he was permitted 
 to remain until the close among the intimate circle. It would 
 have been looked upon as a want of respect towards the mar- 
 quise if any disdain had been evinced towards one whom she 
 had deigned to distinguish. 
 
 But the abbe de Narniers was too well assured of her friend- 
 ship to need that she should retain him by a word. Besides, 
 he was one of the heroes of the hour, and accordingly he in- 
 stalled himself without ceremony among those nearest to her. 
 She inquired after his uncle, and then conversation was re- 
 sumed. 
 
 There was, however, a lack of its usual flow and brilliancy. 
 The pre-occupations of the day were equally discernible in the 
 silence of some, afld the chattering of others. Those who were 
 in the habit of being witty made the greatest exertions to be 
 so still ; and wit, which flies away when sought after, had 
 never been so hard to find. 
 
 The dedication of Tancred had naturally been the principal 
 subject of conversation among the more immediate friends of 
 ':he marquise. All the praises in it had been abundantly com- 
 mented upon ; and it cannot be denied that from the point of 
 view adopted by the author, there was really much that was 
 flattering which might with truth be said to Madame de Pom- 
 padour. She was born an artist. Her talents and beauty, as 
 he had said, had been developing since her earliest childhood. 
 
262 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 Even if she had never been connected with the throne, she had 
 tnlonts which would have assured her anywhere a brilliant 
 position and a high rank. She sang in a style which drew 
 upon her the envy of the first opera singers : she drew so well 
 as to charm the most fastidious connoisseurs. Generalities 
 and details, theory and practice, were all equally familiar to 
 her. Although literature and the arts repaid with usury the 
 protection which she bestowed upon them, it would have been 
 evidently unjust to assert that she liked them only from 
 interested motives. Artists and poets could praise her con- 
 scientiously, as more capable than any one else of appreciating 
 their works. She valued their praises, but she also wished to 
 deserve them ; and to do that she had but to follow the bent 
 of her inclinations. 
 
 In this task, which we would look upon as great and noble, 
 if we could forget in what situation she pursued it, Madame 
 de Pompadour was powerfully seconded by her brother, the 
 young marquis de Marigny. Like herself, he had from his 
 childhoQil loved the arts. He had afterwards studied them 
 seriously, as well as with taste. At the age of twenty -three, 
 he hiiil received the post of superintendent of the royal build- 
 ings; and so well and nobly did he use it. so much talent and 
 aptitude did he show for its duties, that it was almost forgotten 
 that he owed it to the influence of his sister. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 THE YOUNG AUTHOR. 
 
 A short time after the entrance of the abbe, the privileged 
 cirele again opened to admit the marquis de Marigny. He 
 brought with him a young man of his own age, small and 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 263 
 
 slender, with a sweet expression of countenance and a tolerably 
 martial air. 
 
 " Madame," he said, presenting him to the marquise, " Mon- 
 sieur Dorat, whom you permitted me to bring to you." 
 
 " He is most welc ime. I heard with much pleasure, Mon- 
 sieur, of the success of your piece — " 
 
 '' Madame, I am — " , 
 
 " And I hope that this first success promises many others. 
 I have not yet read your — " 
 
 The name escaped her. 
 
 " Zulisca" suggested Marigny. 
 
 " Your Zulisca. But I have heard it much commended — " 
 
 " Madame,— I—" 
 
 " very highly commended ; and the public in general 
 
 are, it seems, of the same opinion with those who spoke to me 
 in regard to it." 
 
 And Dorat, like so many others before him, was enchanted 
 with her. How was it possible to resist such advances, made 
 in the presence of five or six dukes, five or six ladies of distinc- 
 tion, and from that throne at the foot of which all prostrated 
 themselves ! 
 
 " They tell me," she resumed, " that you make charming 
 verses." 
 
 " Madame is very indulgent." 
 
 " I am only just. Monsieur. I am anxious that you should 
 yourself prove it to me. When you happen to have some 
 specimens completed, come — " 
 
 " Specimens !" said Marigny. " All his verses are complete 
 samples. I know nothing more finished, more coquettish." 
 
 " '^OT flatter " murmured Eichelieu. 
 
 " At all events, Monsieur," she resumed, " I repeat my in- 
 vitation. Have you always been fond of making verses V 
 
264 THE PEIEST AND 
 
 " Always, Madame, even in the midst of the dust of the 
 court of records." 
 
 " And in the midst of the powder of camps," added Marigny. 
 
 " You have been in the army, Monsieur 1" 
 
 " In the mousquetaires, Madame." 
 
 " And was it the Muse who chased you from the service f 
 
 " Other reasons." — 
 
 " Come, Dorat," said Marigny, " let us have the whole of 
 your confession, — unless you prefer that I should make it." 
 
 " You, Monsieur ? I am curious to know." 
 
 " Love alone can make any one leave the mousquetaires. 
 Accordingly — " 
 
 " I see the conclusion to which you are coming, — but it is 
 incorrect. Monsieur." 
 
 " What ! was it not the beaux yeux of — " 
 
 "Ofan old aunt." 
 
 " In that case, it was the heaux yeux de sa cassetted* 
 
 " No, no—" 
 
 "Yes! yes!" 
 
 " No, she said that the calling of a mousquetaire was one of 
 those in which it is the most difficult to secure one's salvation. 
 And she could have no peace until I had abandoned Mars — " 
 
 " For the Muses — " 
 
 " And she gained but little by it, the good woman. She 
 considers the Muses cjuite as heathenish as Mars." 
 
 This was one of the oddities of tlic day. Between license 
 and prudery, there was no medium. Louis Racine groaned 
 over the tragedies of his father. Gresset, author of the 
 " Mediant" had just then published his Letter on Plays, in 
 which he asks pardon of God and men for having written 
 comedies. Always everything or nothing. " As soon as they 
 * " The fine eyes of her strong-box." Molicre. (Tr.) 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 265 
 
 are persuaded to believe in God," says Duclos, " they believe 
 in the baptism of bells." 
 
 " According to her," continued Ddrat, " the success of my 
 piece was the work of the devil." 
 
 " Wit is a devil. Monsieur." 
 
 " An amiable devil, Madame, when it shows itself in your 
 lilceness." 
 
 " Good, Dorat, good !" said Marigny. " The specimen is 
 produced. He need give you no others, my sister." 
 
 But it would have taken a great many others to enable the 
 raarquise to resume her usual ease and gaiety. She had al- 
 ready made a great effort in forcing herself to sustain the con 
 versation for these few moments. The toilet was about to 
 finish. The king did not make his appearance. Marigny 
 alone now talked and laughed ; his sister no longer even list- 
 ened to him. 
 
 Suddenly, she resumed her animation. Her eyes sparkled, 
 and she might be seen to struggle against quite another emo- 
 tion. Marigny had leaned towards her, and two or three of 
 those nearest her, thought that they heard him say, " He will 
 come." 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 PETITIOHS, PLANS, SUGGESTIONS, APPEALS. 
 
 In order to approach her without being too much remarked, 
 ne had made a feint of turning over a number of notes and 
 papers which were lying upon the table among the phials and 
 boxes. 
 
 " What are you about ?" she asked, laughing. " My pa- 
 pers — my secrets. Will you have the goodness — " 
 
 But he seized and carried off a handful. 
 23 
 
266 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " Your secrets ? your secrets 1 We shall see — " 
 
 He knew very well that his sister was not the person to 
 leave papers upon her table which she would not care ti) have 
 seen. Besides, he was often accustomed in the presence of the 
 habitual frequenters of the toilette, to open the letters of all 
 kinds which never failed to arrive at that hour. He could per- 
 ceive at a glance whether it was anything which might be read 
 aloud, and made his comments, sometimes seriously, some- 
 times jestingly, upon the requests and the style of these 
 numberless correspondents. Useful or absurd projects, 
 ridiculous or touching complaints, great or little verses, good 
 or bad prose, anonymous insults, or praises signed by the 
 grandest names, these were the offerings heaped up every day 
 at the feet of a power known to be wthout bounds. 
 
 Marigny went on reading those for some minutes without 
 opening his lips. 
 
 " Well !" said the marquise, " you keep everything to your- 
 self." 
 
 Marigny shrugged his shoulders;. 
 
 " If we don't go and fight the English in their island, it will 
 not be for want of plans of making a descent upon them." 
 
 " Another one '?" 
 
 " Here arc two more." 
 
 " We make them, and they execute them," said Richelieu to 
 the marshal de Belle-Isle, the minister of war, who had stirred 
 all France a year before, with preparations for an invasion 
 which had not even been attempted. Since that time the 
 makers of projects had not ceased to enlarge upon this subject, 
 and every day brought forth some new plan. In the mean- 
 time the English battered the coasts of France with their 
 bullets. 
 
 " And infernal machines ?" asked the marquise. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 267 
 
 " There are none to-day." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it." 
 
 " But yesterday ! — " 
 
 "Ah! yes. There was one which the author said would 
 blow up twenty ships of the line at once — " 
 
 " Provided the twenty vessels would permit it to be fastened 
 to them." 
 
 " Doubtless. There is always the bell to be fastened on, — 
 and that is the very thing about which these projectors do not 
 trouble themselves." 
 
 " Ah ha !" cried Marigny. " Here is some one at all events, 
 who does not wish to destroy his fellow creatures. A new 
 sort of food, — ^wholesome, abundant, easy to cultivate, capable 
 of being kept a year. Peste !" 
 
 " Some affair for the poor !" said Eichelieu, with great con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " It would be no bad thing in that case. Monsieur," said 
 Marigny, — " but bah ! how can any one believe such mar- 
 vels?" 
 
 " What sort of thing is it 1" asked his sister. 
 
 " A certain plant brought from Peru, nearly two hundred 
 years ago. It produces bulbs, — a sort of truffles — " 
 
 " My dear marquis !" cried the duke de Gesvres, " do not 
 couple the name of truffles with these vulgar things. Have 
 they even a name V 
 
 " The writer calls them pomm.es de terre, potatoes." 
 
 '■'■Potatoes, be it so. The only thing wanting is that he 
 should send a specimen to Madame, — or a bouquet of the 
 flowers of this interesting plant !" 
 
 The old duke thought this a good joke. What would he 
 have said if he had seen a king of France one fine day with a 
 bouquet of these very flowers. But Parmentier, »he advo- 
 
268 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 cate, — thu inventor as he was called, of the potatoe, had still 
 to struggle for twenty years against the prejudices of the 
 learned and the reluctance of the ignorant. 
 
 So they ridiculed it very gaily. Marigny alone did not ap- 
 pear to think that it was the notion of a madman. 
 
 As he opened another folded paper, astonishment and pity 
 were suddenly depicted upon his countenance. Without a 
 word he handed his sister a note written with blood. There 
 was a single line and a name. 
 
 " Madame, — To-day, July 21st 1760, at noon, I shall have 
 suffered for one hundred thousand hours. 
 
 " From my cell in the Bastile. Latude." 
 
 She cast her eyes over it carelessly. 
 
 " It is the twentieth at least," she said. 
 
 And the conversation was recommenced. 
 
 lie insisted. " One hundred thousand hours, my sister !" 
 
 But he read in her eyes that it was in vain, and that there 
 was no pardon for any one who had been so unhappy as to 
 offend her. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 MARIGNY. THE KING AND HIS ARCHITECT. GREAT PLANS. 
 
 At length the king arrived, — the king whom she had awaited 
 with such restless impatience. He entered, as she had said in 
 her letter to the pope, " by the reception room ;" and outside, 
 on the parquet of the antechamber, resounded the halberts of 
 tlir Swiss guards. It was plain that he came as king. No- 
 'Mng was wanting to the triumph of his mistress. 
 
 What kid passed between him and Marigny, which enabled 
 the latter to say, " He is coming 1" 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 269 
 
 Marigny had not lost sight of him since the morning. He 
 feared, not without reason, that the night might have brought 
 its counsel, and at all events, counsel might malce its appear 
 ance at any moment in the shape of Father Desmarets. 
 
 He and his friends, accordingly, kept up a strict watch 
 around the king's apartments. Although he preferred meet- 
 ing him accidentally, he was prepared in case no opportunity 
 should offer itself, to enter and go directly to his Majesty, for 
 no one, not even excepting Richelieu, had ever attained so high 
 a place as he in the good graces of the king. When his sister 
 first brought him to court, he was still a youth, almost a child, 
 but a ciiild of sparkling wit, and possessed withal of a naivete, 
 and a frankness, which enchanted the king. A bourgeois by 
 birth, he laughed at his titles, and played with them as with 
 brilliant toys which he knew could add nothing to his merit. 
 Created marquis de Marigny, after having been for some time 
 marquis de Vandieres, he said : " The fishwomen have always 
 called me the marquis d^Avant-Hier, (of day before yester- 
 day,) you will see that they will now call me the marquis des 
 Mariniers, (of mariners,) which is very natural, since I was 
 born a Poisson,* (fish.)" And the king laughed heartily, while 
 the courtiers wondered that any one could be so little puffed 
 up by such an enviable position. However, they were but 
 the more assidious in their attentions to him. " I cannot drop 
 my handkerchief," he wrote to a friend, " that twenty cordons 
 hleus\ do not dispute for the honor of picking it up." As for 
 the king, he felt an emotion almost of gratitude towards his 
 young superintendent. He owed to him the few moments he 
 had ever known of those fresh and innocent enjoyments which 
 rarely survive childhood or early youth, and which the king 
 
 * Poisson was in fact the family name. 
 
 j- Decoration of the order of Knights of the Holy Ghost (Tr.) 
 23* 
 
270 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 had never experienced. The king had often called him his 
 little brother, and this little brother had retained as a man, all 
 the rights of a loved and petted younger brother. 
 
 We do not know how great his influence may have been, 
 through his sister, upon State affairs, but he never appeared to 
 desire for himself anything besides being the centre of the 
 arts, and the protector of the artists. Notwithstanding the 
 favor which he enjoyed, he was not a, favorite, in the sense which 
 this word conveyed in the time of some of the more or less 
 indolent kings. His influence was rarely exerted beyond the 
 limits of his calling. If he did not satisfy everybody, still no 
 one upon the whole caused less dissatisfaction than he. 
 
 Of course we cannot expect him to have had sentiments 
 and principles which did not belong to the period. When the 
 greatest lords considered themselves honored with the friend- 
 ship of the king's mistress, why should he have blushed at 
 being her brother ? He felt accordingly not the slightest 
 shame or embarassment in regard to it. If he had been the 
 queen's brother, or the first prince of the blood, he could not 
 have been more perfectly at his ease. 
 
 Ever since morning he had been on the watch. 
 
 The king left his apartments. It was the hour of the toil- 
 ette, and Marigny doubted not that the king would proceed 
 thither. His dismay was great, accordingly, when he saw him 
 go down the staircase which conducted to the grand terrace, 
 and direct his steps towards the gardens. But as this was at 
 the same time the best possible opportunity for meeting him 
 accidentally, he hastily took a cross allej', and the king found 
 him giving orders near one of the basins which was under re- 
 |)alr. He even had in his hand, m the most business-like man- 
 ner, a long wooden measure, and a large roll of paper. His 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 271 
 
 back was turned, and he appeared entirely absorbed by his 
 occupation. 
 
 Two or three courtiers who accompanied the king, stopped 
 at some distance. A man, a shadow had appeared here and 
 there through the branches of the trees. The courtiers had 
 pointed him out to each other silently. The king had not 
 seen, or had not chosen to see him. 
 
 " Good day, Marigny," said the king. 
 
 " Good day — Ah ! sire, excuse me ! Who could have 
 imagined that it was your Majesty 1" 
 
 " Always at work ■?" 
 
 " Your Majesty well knows that it is my greatest happiness 
 to be at work." 
 
 " What are you about there ? You spoke to me of some 
 pipe to be mended." 
 
 " But these tritons were badly placed. I profited by the 
 opportunity to arrange them more to my taste. Do they not 
 look much better now V 
 
 " Perhaps they do. It is a lucky thing, at all events, that 
 the chateau is heavier than a triton." 
 
 " Why, sire 1" 
 
 " Because otherwise I should find it upside down some fine 
 morning." 
 
 " Patience. God gives us life — and money, — and we turn 
 these into many other things for you." 
 
 " Here is something which is not only turned, but quite 
 new, if I am not mistaken. What is there to be upon these 
 two stones V 
 
 " T-wo vases — masterpieces, which I have ordered from Le- 
 moyne and BoLchardon." 
 
 " You have a particular attachment for this basin, then, since 
 you wish to ruin me in adorning it ?" 
 
272 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " A particular attachment ? Not more than for the others." 
 
 " So you are attached to them all V 
 
 " So be it. Yes, your Majesty is right, I am particularly 
 fond of this one." 
 
 " I understand. — Well, she is very pretty, in truth." 
 
 » Who V 
 
 ' This nymph of Coysevox who is admiring herself in tha 
 water." 
 
 " Oh, she is of marble, sire." 
 
 " Then why your predilection for this basin ?" 
 
 " Because I once fished a poet out of it." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, you told me. It was Sedaine, was it not 1" 
 
 " Exactly. Sedaine, the restorer of the comic opera, one of 
 the glories of your reign, sire, no offense to the envious. It 
 was here that I surprised him pencilling verses, and that he 
 confessed to me his plan of abandoning the trowel for the 
 pen." 
 
 " And you encouraged him, I suppose V 
 
 " I should have been far from doing so, what would Boileau 
 have said ? 
 
 'Remain a masoD, friend, if tliia be now your trade,' 
 
 I said to him. But he plead his cause like Sophocles ; he read 
 me his first piece — " 
 
 "What was it r 
 
 " ' Le Diahle a quatre: "* 
 
 " Has he written anything on the trade V 
 
 " Two pieces, sire." 
 
 " What are their names 1" 
 
 "One is ' Tke Gardener and his Master;'' Philidor set it to 
 
 * The devil to pay. 
 
THE HLTGUENOT. 273 
 
 music. The other is ' The King and the Farmer^ — the music 
 by Monsigny, I think." 
 
 The Icing had resumed his walk. Marigny laid down his 
 measure, and still conversing, accompanied him. 
 
 The courtiers followed at some distance. The shadow had 
 again made its appearance at the turn of one of the avenues. 
 
 " What have you there ?" asked the king. 
 
 He pointed to the great roll of paper which Marigny had 
 kept in his hand. 
 
 " A plan, sire." 
 
 " A basin f 
 
 " No ; a sewer which I wish to try and clean." 
 
 Marigny unrolled his paper. The king cast a glance over 
 it, and began to laugh. 
 
 " Is that your sewer V 
 
 " Yes, sire. Your good city of Paris, arranged, purified — " 
 
 " But, good heavens ! what is all this ? One can hardly 
 recognize Paris. Have you perhaps three hundred millions to 
 advance me in order to pay for this overturning ? Ah ! Notre- 
 Dame is in the old place, eh V 
 
 " Yes ; but the place de Parvis is twice its present size. By 
 pulling down a few houses, I make a commodious, almost a 
 handsome approach to your cathedral, and at the same time to 
 the Hotel-Dieu, See — " 
 
 " Let us sit down." 
 
 It was at the entrance of a grove. The steps of a man were 
 heard, precipitately retreating on the opposite side. 
 
 They went in. Marigny spread his plan upon a marble 
 table, broke off a little branch, trimmed off its leaves, and re- 
 mained standing beside the king, pointing out the different 
 places with his impromptu wand. 
 
 " You see," le contimted, " this is the Palace of Justice ; but 
 
274 THE PKIBST AND 
 
 it is no loi ger smothered in its old island. I pull down fifty- 
 houses, and make you there, on the river bank, opposite the 
 Chatelet, a charming promenade." 
 
 " What is this point in the middle V 
 
 " The statue of the king." 
 
 " Another ? I shall see no one but myself after awhile. 
 They say that the Parisians think they already have too much 
 of me. This statue — " 
 
 " Is not for the Parisians, sire. I wish that the gentlemen 
 of the Parliament shall remember as they are going to the 
 Palace, that "there is a king in France, which fact they occa- 
 sionally forget, as your Majesty knows. But, to proceed. 
 These two magnificent lines of — " 
 
 " Marigny, where will you get the money 1" 
 
 " Ah ! sire, that is a question which Louis XIV. would never 
 have asked !" 
 
 " If he had asked it sometimes, I should not be obliged to do 
 so now." 
 
 " Well, I have arranged everything. Soufflot has made his 
 calculations. He asks twenty years — " 
 
 " Thirty, if he likes. That we can promise him, more easily 
 than anything else." 
 
 " And only fifteen hundred thousand livres outlay every 
 year." 
 
 " You are jesting, Marigny. What can be done with fifteen 
 hundred thousand livres a year? I never had a foot of wall 
 built, which did not cost two or three times as much as the first 
 calculation. Witness this pipe to be mended, which, thanks to 
 you, is going to cost me perhaps two thousand'livres — " 
 
 " ri\'c thousand, sire, the two vases included." 
 
 "You see?' 
 
 " I see that you will have encouraged two great artists in 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 275 
 
 their labors, for half the sum which you sometimes give a gi'eat 
 lord for doing nothing, or doing mischief. Well, sire, let us 
 say no more of this unlucky basin. I -will pay for it if neces- 
 sary. But this — this is your capital ; this is the great stone 
 page upon which you have to engrave your name. It is ten 
 years since I have been studying out this plan. Ten years, did 
 [ say ? I was still a child and could not possibly suspect that 
 I should ever have anything to do with these things, when my 
 Imagination already bounded at the thought of the marvels 
 which might be made to arise from this old chaos of a Paris. 
 Oh for a king, I sighed, a king who would but listen to me ! 
 And here I am with a Idng, — but a king who cheapens, who 
 objects. A king who might rebuild Paris, and who regards it 
 as might a bourgeois of the Eue St. Denis, to whom one 
 might speak of repairing his house ! ' The calculation is not 
 correct. The expense will be double, triple the sum.' Well, — • 
 if it should be quadruple, if Soufflot should ask not thirty, but 
 an hundred, an hundred and sixty millions, — I saj' that you 
 ought to accept, and I say that the battle of Fontenoy will be 
 sooner forgotten than a good fountain with which you provided 
 the poor people of a little alley in Paris ! — " 
 
 His voice faltered ; the tears came into his eyes. His sister, 
 nis fears, the secret object with which he had sought this inter- 
 view, — all were forgotten. He had begun by acting a part, 
 and now his whole soul was involuntarily poured forth in his 
 words. 
 
 " Marigny," said the king, " you have a noble heart. Why 
 did I not know you twenty years sooner ! With half of the 
 money which I have spent, — Heaven knows how, — you would 
 have made me achieve great things. But I am old, — ^I am 
 worn out, — and the State is still more worn out than I am. 
 Every thing alarms me. But go on, go on. Come, take your 
 
276 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 branch," — he had thrown it away ; — " you were talking, [ 
 think, of these two lines." 
 
 " Well, these two lines, sire, are two streets, which shall 
 have few, — perhaps no equals in the world. They begin, as 
 you see, at the colonnade of the Louvre. One goes straight to 
 the arsenal, the other to the Bastille. On their way, they will 
 overturn, and cut through hundreds of houses, but it will be in 
 order to carry air, light, cleanliness, and life into this im- 
 mense labyrinth. Follow the first. Here you arrive at the 
 H6tel-de-Ville, — ^but twice its present size. It reaches to the 
 quay, — it displays parallel ^vith Notre-Dame a faqade of which 
 Philibert de Lorme need not be ashamed. Now retrace your 
 steps a little. See this immense oblong square ; it is the 
 greatest palace ever built by man. It is your Louvre at length 
 embracing the Tuilkries with its two gigantic arms ; and your 
 Carrousel, — for I consent to let this name remain, — but cleared 
 up, — such as it should have been an hundred years ago, such 
 as I should have commanded it to be made, if I had been king, 
 the first day of my reign ! In these immense galleries I put 
 the Royal Library, the ]SIuseum, the iModals, the Antiques. I 
 lodge the Artists there. I place there the exhibitions of paint- 
 ing, sculpture, industry, and what not ! And oh your place too 
 will be here, my king ! And there shall not be an art in 
 Europe, nor a beautiful thing in France, which you may not 
 lodge under your roof! Return to the quay. You see this 
 bridge which connects the Lou^Te with the Palace Mazarin ? 
 From that you reach the Luxembourg in a straight line. We 
 are there. Now, turn to the k-ft. Go on, to Sainte-Gene- 
 vieve ; — the old cliurch is no longer there. In its place rises 
 the largest and loftiest of the churches of Paris. Three hun- 
 dred and fifty feet long, two hundred and fifty broad, and with 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 277 
 
 a dome which would crush those of Val-de-Gr&ce, and the In- 
 valides. Here it is. — Look — •" 
 
 And rapidly unrolling another paper, he spread it before the 
 king. 
 
 " I^ook, sire, look ! There are twenty of these beautiful 
 columns in the portico ; they are nearly six feet in diameter, 
 nearly sixty in height. Enter. See, here are more columns, — 
 and here more, and here,— they are not so gigantic, but there 
 are more than an hundred of them ! Raise your eyes. You 
 are beneath the dome. You are bewildered by the misty, huge 
 expanse. Ascend. You reach the gallery which surrounds it. 
 Ascend higher ; you are in the second cupola. Ascend still 
 higher ; — you are on top of the dome. You seem to hover over 
 Paris. Its belfries, its towers are all beneath your feet. And 
 even at the distance of many leagues can be perceived this high 
 crown which you have placed on the brow of the old city. And 
 the traveller asks who built this colossus. And he is told. 
 ' It is the king, Louis XV.' " 
 
 " Build !" cried the king, " build, Marigny ! Tell Soufflot 
 to begin, to make haste. The money you shall have. The 
 time I want you to shorten by half I do not wish to die 
 before, having ascended your dome. I will — " 
 
 " And he is told," continued Marigny, as if talking to him- 
 self,- -" he is told, ' It is king Louis XV.' — yes, king Louis 
 XV. But who inspired the king, Louis XV., with the idea of 
 erecting these works which will immortalize his name 1 Who 
 caused him to build the Military School, in order that Louis 
 XIV. shoula no longer monopolize all praises for his hospital 
 for invalid soldiers ? Who taught him to love what is beau- 
 tiful c»nd great ] Who encouraged him 1 — " 
 
 "You, Marigny, — I know it well,' — you." 
 - Marigny continued, but in a still lower voice, as if fie had 
 
 24 
 
278 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 been alone : " Who, in short, was the originator of these mag 
 nificent things ? It was not his courtiers, — ^not his ministers, — 
 it was not even he who brought the plans to him ; — it was a 
 woman, — a woman who was his good genius, and whom he 
 sacrificed to the demands of bigots !" 
 
 At this unexpected conclusion, the king abruptly raised his 
 head. Astonishment, gratitude and anger, were strangely 
 mingled in his glance. As for Marigny, he silently rolled up 
 his plans. 
 
 " You are going awaj' 1" said the king. 
 
 " With your Majesty's permission." 
 
 " And where are you going to ?" 
 
 " To my sister." 
 
 " What to do there V 
 
 " To see if the courtiers are more faithfiil than the king." 
 
 " Well, then ! go, and expect the king presently." 
 
 "May I really, siref 
 
 " Go." 
 
 He was ashamed of his weakness, and strove to conceal it 
 as well as he could beneath an abrupt tone. But Marigny, 
 who knew him thoroughly, was but the more assured of his 
 victory when he heard this rude tone. A gracious promise 
 might have been a feint ; a fit of ill-humor proved that Louis 
 XV. felt himself bound. 
 
 Marigny had but one apprehension. He thought of the 
 shadow which had been seen wandering through the bushes. 
 
 His joy was great, accordingly, when his sentinels informed 
 him that it had returned to the chateau. 
 
 The shadow was Desmarets. He too had endeavored to 
 meet the king accidentally. The game was once more lost. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 279 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 THE kino's arrival. VOLTAIRE's DEDICATION AGAIN. CHAR- 
 ACTERISTICS OP THE NOBILITT OF FRANCE. 
 
 Prepared in time by her iDrotlier, Madame de Pompadour 
 betrayed neither surprise nor joy upon the entrance of the 
 king. She only rose and received him as usual, with that 
 courtly grace which she knew so perfectly how to display. 
 She asked his permission, as customary, to continue her toil- 
 ette. This was the only distinction which was obtained by a 
 king or prince of the blood at the toilette of a lady. He was 
 supposed to make his appearance there as a man, and not as a 
 prmce, and had no right to any homage from the person to 
 whom he came to pay his own. Accordingly, the politeness 
 of the lady never went so far as to lead her to excuse herself 
 for the undress in which he found her. It was not one of the 
 least peculiarities of the time to see, seated in public, before a 
 woman with her hair half arranged, him before whom the 
 highest magistrates never ventured to appear save in full 
 dress, and invested with the insignia of office. 
 
 At first there was a profound silence ; then, as soon as the 
 king had exchanged a few common-place words with her, the 
 conversation was re-commenced. Custom allowed ii, and 
 besides it would not do to seem to be spying out what passed 
 between them. Most commonly the conversation remained 
 general among the eight or ten courtiers who formed the more 
 intimate circle. The king took part in it like the others ; but 
 when he was present, the marquise also took more part in it. 
 She addressed herself, in speaking, to him, unless she had to 
 reply directly to a question from some other speaker. 
 
280 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 In the meanwhile, Marigny still held in his hand the note 
 of the prisoner. 
 
 " What are you reading there ?" asked the king. 
 
 " Nothing," said the marquise, — " a memorial." 
 
 She took it, and threw it carelessly upon the table. 
 
 " Let us see,'' said the king. " Ah ! Latude ? One hundred 
 thousand hours ! Already ? Yes, so it is. One hundred 
 thousand hours make about — four thousand — ^four thousand 
 two hundred days. Eleven years and a little more." 
 
 And the courtiers admired the rapidity with which the king 
 made this calculation. 
 
 But not a word of the prisoner. Latude had only two hun- 
 dred and fift}- thousand hours longer to suffer.* 
 
 The conversation, until his arrival, as we said before, had 
 turned upon the famous dedication. As no one could guess 
 what had taken place on the preceding evening, nor the ill- 
 humor into which certain portions had thrown the king, the 
 subject was continued, to the great vexation of the two wit- 
 nesses of the other scene. Richelieu wished to change the 
 conversation ; but the count de Lauraguais, who chanced to 
 have the book in his hand, was not the man to let such a sub- 
 ject drop quietly. Besides his liking for Voltaire, he was one 
 of the most zealous patrons of the dramatic art in France. It 
 was owing to his efforts that spectators were no longer allowed 
 to take their seats upon the stage. He had devoted a con- 
 siderable sum to the indemnification of the actors for the 
 suppression of these places, which commanded very high 
 prices. The young nobility looked upon them, besides, as one 
 of their inalien.ible privileges, and it had been necessary for 
 Voltaire to decide them to make this sacrifice required by the 
 merest common sense. 
 
 * It is known that he was not liberated until 1T84. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 281 
 
 " In truth," he said, " I never read anything finer than the close." 
 
 " The close of what V asked the king. 
 
 " Of the dedication to Madame — " 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 He understood, from the tone of this ah ! that the thing was 
 not particularly to the king's taste. But it was too late to 
 retreat. 
 
 " Your Majesty has read it V 
 
 " Not the close." 
 
 " Will your Majesty permit me to read it aloud V 
 
 " Read it." 
 
 " ' Even in our provinces are to be seen superb 
 
 theatres, as circuses were to be seen in all the Roman prov- 
 inces; an undeniable proof of the taste which yet exists among 
 us, and of our resources under the most difficult circumstances. 
 It is in vain that many of our countrymen endeavor to estab- 
 lish as a fact, that we are on the decline in everything. I am 
 not of the opinion of those who, upon coming from the play, 
 go to a delicious supper, and in the midst of luxury and 
 pleasure assert that all is lost ' — " 
 
 " What !" said the king, with a feigned amazement which he 
 knew very well how to make very malicious ; — " are there 
 people in France who believe that all is lost V 
 
 Although he was well known to be among the number of 
 these, such a question, so directly asked, might well put a 
 courtier out of countenance. 
 
 " Sire — " stammered the count. 
 
 And his eyes wandered from the king to the book, as if 
 asking permission to go on without answering. 
 
 " Ah ! ha !" resumed the king; "people who think that all 
 is lost ! Well, — we will console ourselves, for here is Mon- 
 sieur de Voltaire who condescends to hold another opinion." 
 
 24* 
 
282 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 The count hastened to take these last words as a signal that 
 he might go on. He resumed : 
 
 " ' I am living quite near a provincial city, as populous as 
 modern Eome, and much more wealthy, — giving employment 
 to more than forty thousand persons, — which has just built the 
 handsomest hospital and the finest theatre in the kingdom. 
 Say honestly, could all these things be, if our land produced 
 nothing but thistles V — " 
 
 " Weather-cock ! — " murmured the king. 
 
 " Did you speak, sire V asked the marquise. 
 
 " He sets up as an optimist for the time being, with just as 
 much reason and sincerity, as he uses when he chooses to pull 
 us to pieces, or when he writes to his king of Prussia. One 
 day, because he came across some ragged peasants, he accuses 
 us of sucking the very blood of the people, and at another 
 time, because Lyons builds a theatre, and his pieces are 
 played in it, behold everything is going on in the best possible 
 ■w ay in this best of worlds !" 
 
 " Listen, sire, to the rest. Here we have something in the 
 patriarchal style." 
 
 The count felt that he must pacify the king by laughing him- 
 self a little, at the whims of the patriarch. He read on ; and 
 this same production which would unanimously have been pro- 
 nounced sublime, if the king had appeared at all inclined to 
 like it, was listened to with satirical shrugs. The reader him- 
 st'lf affected a certain emphasis, which was not fur from being 
 a parody. 
 
 '"I have chobcn for my dwelling one of the least fertile 
 regions of France. And yet nothing is wanting here. The 
 («untry is adorned with houses which would formerly have 
 been called beautiful. Those of the poor who will labor, here 
 Cease to be poor ; this little province has become a smiling 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 283 
 
 garden. It is better assuredly to improve one's estate, than to 
 stay in Paris, and complain of its barrenness.' " 
 
 " Ah ! ha !" interrupted the king, " that is not bad. What 
 is the matter with you. Monsieur de Lauraguais, that you wish 
 to spoil this last part for me, after having read the other with 
 such unction ? Yes, yes. It is certainly infinitely better for a 
 man to live on his estate and improve it, than to stay in Paris 
 — or at Versailles — and grumble about its worthlessness. I 
 suspect strongly, — or rather I am perfectly sure that every- 
 thing your patriarch has said there, is purely from a spirit of 
 contradiction. If my nobility liked to plant cabbages, he 
 would not plant any, and would be the first to jeer and laugh 
 at them. ' But the advice is good, nevertheless." 
 
 " And your Majesty repeats this advice to us V said Riche- 
 lieu. " That is also most patriarchal. I confess, however, that 
 I find it difficult to picture to myself a — " 
 
 "A Richelieu, eh?" 
 
 " Well, say a Richelieu — A Richelieu planting — I dare 
 not go on in the presence of Madame'" 
 
 " Charlemagne used to sell his eggs." 
 
 " O sire, must we return to the days when kings were shep- 
 herds ■?" 
 
 " Seriously, gentlemen, if each nobleman troubled his head 
 a little more about the improvement of his estates, we should 
 not be in the condition in which we now are — " 
 
 " Your Majesty forgets one point." 
 
 "Whatf 
 
 " That at the same time he must occupy himself less in mak- 
 ing away with his revenues." 
 
 " And do you say that Richelieu 1 Very good. But you 
 do not always say as much. If I am to believe a certain trans- 
 action — " 
 
284 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " With my grandson, I will wager." 
 
 " Exactly. Is the story a fable ?" 
 
 " Not at all. I should be very sorry if it were. Fancy, 
 Madame, this year, on the first of January, I present my 
 granLSon with fifty louis as a holiday gift. Three months af- 
 terwards I visit him in his college, and ask him in the course 
 of conversation, what he had done with the money. There- 
 upon the rogue assumes a triumphant air, opens his armoire, 
 and places in my hand — what 1 My fifty louis. He had not 
 touched them ; he had not even opened the purse. Without 
 saying a word I opened the window, and threw the purse out 
 to a street sweeper, calling to him—' See, my lad, there is 
 what Monsieur Ic comte de Cliinon gives you for a new year's 
 present.' Then coming back to my embryo Harpagon, I said 
 to him, ' learn, my friend, that when one who has the honor 
 to be called the count de Chinon, and expects one day to be 
 the duke de Eichelieu, he is not to keep fifty louis for three 
 months without touching them.' " 
 
 " That is a lesson," said the king, " by which he may profit 
 better than you wish, some ten years hence." 
 
 " It is possible." 
 
 " However, since you have something with which to be mag- 
 nificent, be so. But for one ox which is large without swell- 
 ing itself up, — although not without eating — " 
 
 Richelieu felt the stroke. The kmg was aware of his pil- 
 laging during the campaign in Hanover, and liked to remind 
 him of it. 
 
 " For one ox, as I said," continued the king, " how many 
 frogs there are who swell themselves up with all their might! 
 My ancestor Henry IV. laughed at those whom he sawwith 'their 
 mills and their forests on their backs.' I know many people 
 who would be glad enough to have got no farther than their 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 285 
 
 mills and forests-. It is their ch&teaux, their estates which I 
 see them wearing in the form of laces and braidings. What 
 are we coming to, gentlemen, what are we coming to ?" 
 
 It was not the first time that he had been heard to criticise 
 or satirize the prodigalities of the nobility, but as he was 
 himself, upon the whole, the most prodigal, and the most 
 deeply in debt of all the gentlemen in France, it was natural 
 that his remarks should not produce much effect. We shall 
 return to the singularity of this state of things. 
 
 They endeavored to proceed jestingly with the conversation, 
 which the king had commenced with a seriousness which did 
 not entirely exclude pleasantry, but this time the feeling of 
 seriousness predominated in his mind. In spite of all that was 
 said he remained thoughtful. He seemed unconscious of what 
 was passing around him. He had been led, while jesting, 
 to the brink of one of the abysses towards which he felt his 
 kingdom hastening. His impressions of the evening before 
 and of this morning, were vaguely mingled with those of this 
 terrifying picture. Sadness was for him at the bottom of 
 everything. He did not seek it, — but it seemed to follow 
 him. 
 
 The toilette finished, he rose, took leave of the marquise, 
 and returned to his apartments. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 EI SING HOPES. 
 
 Madame de Pompadour allowed every one to go out, ex- 
 cepting her brother and the abbe. 
 
 The king had come. That was a great deal. But he had 
 gone away in a state of mind which the marquise had always 
 
286 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 dreaded. She ruled only by causing him to banist aL thought. 
 What would she have to expect if he should finally refuse to 
 do this ? 
 
 It was accordingly somewhat gloomily that she, with her 
 brother and the abbe de Narniers, began to recapitulate the 
 events of the past week. After many reflections, more or less 
 disquieting or re-assuring, she said to the abbe : 
 
 " I have been thinking a good deal of your sermon for to- 
 morrow. Have you committed it to memory as you showed 
 it to me 1" 
 
 " Yes, Madame." 
 
 " It is very bold. If the king had not come to-day to my 
 toilette, you would have been obliged to throw it aside." 
 
 The abbe shuddered to think what a narrow escape he had 
 had. 
 
 " And indeed," she continued, " I do not know whether cer- 
 tain passages will not appear rather forcible." 
 
 The abbe shuddered again, for he had made them still more 
 forcible. The sermon which he had read to his protectress, 
 some weeks before, was much less scandalous than that which 
 Bridaine had heard at Meaux. lie trembled lest she should 
 insist upon his re-writing it. 
 
 " Suppose we read it once more together V she resumed. 
 
 " I fear, — it might fatigue you. Rely upon me." 
 
 " Very well. To-morrow, then. But do not be uneasy if 
 you do not see me in the oliapel." 
 
 " What ! do you not intend to come ?" 
 
 " 1 have not decided. It will perhaps be better, even for 
 your interests, that I should not be there. The king will be 
 more at his ease." 
 
 '■ Act, then, for the best. Adieu, Madame." 
 
 "Adieu, — future bishop of Meaux." 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 287 
 
 " Madame — " 
 
 " Adieu, future archbishop of — let us see, — of what ?" 
 
 " Madame—" 
 
 " A red hat would become him marvellously well, would it 
 not, Marigny V 
 
 And after having delicately reminded him, in jesting^ what 
 she would be able to do for him if she remained sovereign,* 
 she extended to him her hand, which the poor abbo kissed in 
 a transport of respect. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 THE ROYAL CHAPEL OF VERSAILLES. LOUIS XV. AND HIS 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 And SO the next day, which was Sunday, the chapel was 
 crowded. We have elsewhere described the royal chapel, f 
 As it was in 1675, we still see it in 1760 ; and although Louis 
 XV, was far from being so profoundly worshipped there as 
 his predecessor, still the king, and the king more than anything 
 else, was always the object sought in the royal chapel. As in 
 the time of Louis XIV., the amateurs of serious devotion went 
 elsewhere to perform theirs. 
 
 The events of the week, the appearance of a new preacher, 
 and the general expectation that his sermon would be upon a 
 peculiar subject, all contributed to fill Versailles. Paris and 
 the chateau had sent their complement of courtiers. The 
 king's levee had been attended by all who were able to appear 
 in his chamber. He had been observed to look more annoyed 
 
 * She had procured a cardinal's hat for the abbe de Bernis, one of 
 her dependants. 
 
 f In the " Preacher and the King,'' xxv. chapter. 
 
288 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 and wearied than usual, and it was evident that this crowd 
 displeased him. 
 
 The levee was short, and all those whose business did not 
 retain them near the king went immediately to the chapel. 
 
 A large number of ladies was already there. News and 
 comments circulated, as usual, with great rapidity. The 
 queen, her two daughters, and the dauphiness, had set off for 
 Paris : they were going to perform their devotions with the 
 ladies of the Sacred Heart. Although it was not the first time 
 they had done so, it was of course attributed to the peculiar 
 circumstances, and perhaps with some reason. The dauphin 
 had gone to Sens some days before. He loved the stillness 
 of that city, and desired to be buried there. He feared con- 
 tact, even for his remains, with the vices which slept at Saint- 
 Denis. 
 
 Louis XV., on his part, had a dread of the virtues of his 
 family. Even if the dauphin retreated to Sens, and the queen 
 to Paris, still what was their whole life but a continual re- 
 proach to the looseness of his own 1 In vain did they avoid 
 commvming in public ; it was well enough known that they 
 did commune, and that communion was forbidden the king. 
 And yet, as appearances are always something, particularly in 
 a court, Louis XV. was more at his ease when he knew that 
 they were at a distance from him ; so that he never complained 
 of their absence. Of the two annoyances, he willingly chose 
 the least. 
 
 Moreover, he did not love his son, and never had done so. 
 There could be no sympathy between them ; their sentiments 
 in regard to everything wore not more different than their 
 habits. The piety of the dauphin, although very gentle, was 
 often somewhat exaggerated. He took no part in politics, and 
 even abstained from talking of them ; but it was well known 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 289 
 
 that he thought none the less about them for that. He was 
 not on good terms with the king's friends, particularly with 
 Richelieu, nor with the duke de Choiseul, nor, above all, with 
 the marquise, who might expect to be dismissed, imprisoned 
 perhaps, so soon as he should become king. What a gesture 
 had escaped him when he bestowed upon her the embrace 
 exacted by etiquette, the day when she was raised to the rank 
 of duchess ! But that for which the king, without being con- 
 scious of it, found it most difficult to pardon the dauphin, was 
 that he was his successor. He did not like to have any one 
 before his eyes who was to be a gainer by his death. He 
 imagined that this idea was continually present in his son's 
 mind. Accordingly, when some favor was requested of him 
 for one of the dauphin's friends, he replied, " Let him wait !" 
 
 We have already mentioned his conduct to his daughters. 
 He had, however, made it a rule to see them every day ; but 
 we know from the Memoirs of Madame Campan, their reader, 
 how he acquitted himself of this task. " Every morning," she 
 says, " he descended by a private staircase into the apartment 
 of Madame Adelaide. He immediately rang a bell, which 
 informed Madame Victoire of the king's visit ; and Madame 
 Victoire, rising to go to her sister's apartment, rang for 
 Madame Sophie, who in her turn rang for Madame Louise. 
 The latter, small and deformed, crossed a great many rooms 
 at full speed, and often, in spite of her haste, she only arrived 
 in time to embrace her father, who set off immediately for his 
 day's hunting." 
 
 " Every evening at six," Madame Campan continues, " the 
 ladies suspended their reading, in order to go to the king. 
 This visit was called the king's unbooting, and was accom- 
 panied by a kind of etiquette. The princesses put on an 
 enormous hoop, which supported a petticoat loaded with gold 
 
 25 
 
290 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 or embroidery. They fastened around the waist a long train, 
 and concealed the carelessness of the remainder of their dress 
 beneath a large cloak of black taffetas, which covered them up 
 to the chin. The chevaliers of honor, the ladies, the pages, the 
 squires, and ushers carrying large torches, accompanied them 
 to the king. In an instant the whole palace, usually so soli- 
 tary, was in a commotion. The king kissed the brow of each 
 princess ; and the visit was so short, that the suspended read- 
 ing was often re-commenced within a quarter of an hour. The 
 princesses returned to their apartments, untied the fastenings 
 of their skirts and trains, resumed their tapestry work, and I 
 my book." 
 
 As for the princes of the blood, other reasons estranged him 
 from them, or at least prevented him from associating inti- 
 mately with them. He had been very friendly with the prince 
 de Conti ; but the boldness of the latter had changed the 
 friendship into coldness. The prince de Conde was one of the 
 favorite's courtiers ; but he was only twenty-five years old, and 
 could therefore be no friend for Louis XV. The count d'Eu 
 and the duke de Penthievre, sole descendants of the duke du 
 Maine and the count de Toulouse, held themselves much aloof. 
 As for the duke d'Orleans, he too was an heir. He was liked 
 at court, and in favor with the marquise ; but the nearer he 
 was to the throne, the more the king feared, without knowing 
 exactly why, that he would draw still nearer. Louis XV. was 
 not usually fond of being surrounded by people whose position 
 and rights did not depend upon him. He liked to be king, 
 but without giving himself any trouble to be so, and he dis- 
 liked being obliged to reign among those whom birth had 
 made almost his equals. 
 
THE HUGUENOT, 291 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 THE GALLERY LEADING TO THE CHAPEL. 
 
 A very ancient custom, become a law in the time of Louis 
 XIV, had fixed the moment of the king's setting out for the 
 chapel, as that time when he might be approached without 
 previous formalities. It had been agreed that the time when 
 he was about to humble himself before God should also be 
 that when men should be allowed to be his brethren, to see 
 him without ceremony, and to speak with him as with a sim- 
 ple mortal. Then another, and the greatest reason for it was 
 that they were forced to be short, and that the king pressed by 
 time, might always have an excuse for being so too. 
 
 It was therefore not really an audience. The king accom- 
 panied by the captain of the guards and a few noblemen, 
 slowly passed through one of the galleries of the chateau. 
 He must be waited for here. He never seated himself to lis- 
 ten ; frequently he even continued to walk on. The petitioner 
 was in that case permitted to walk beside him, continuing to 
 speak with him, but only until some one else should present 
 himself. Thereupon the king paused, and the first speaker 
 hastened to finish. If too many presented themselves at one 
 time, the king by a word or gesture expressed his regret at 
 not being able to listen to them all, and the unsuccessful must 
 put off their communications until another day. 
 
 It was rare for any petitioners to present themselves on a 
 Sunday, but the way was lined with crowds of the inquisitive. 
 He was accustomed on that day, to receive the somewhat 
 awkward salutations of the honest citizens, who came to let 
 their good wives have a glance at the court. It amused him 
 
292 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 to pass through these people, and he continued the amusement 
 at dinner, which was also public on Sunday. As he excelled in 
 breaking the shell of an egg by means of a dexterous back 
 stroke of his fork, he never failed to eat eggs at his public din- 
 ner, and was almost flattered by the admiration of the clowns 
 for this pitiful bit of adroitness. 
 
 However, the number of gazers was smaller year by year. 
 The bourgeois, ^^'ithout hating the Jesuits, was devoted to the 
 parliament ; without having gone so far as to hate the king, he 
 began to look very black at him. Had he not also hummed 
 in his back-shop more than one of the half seditious verses on 
 the exile of Monsieur de Chauvelin 1 As for the questions still 
 at issue between the magistracy and royalty, he confessed that 
 he did not understand much about them ; but he confided in 
 * Messieurs of the Parliament, — and wherever Messieurs said no, 
 he felt himself obliged to slouch his hat and cry " No !" Ac- 
 cordingly, he no longer cared so much to go to Versailles in 
 order to stare at the royal mouth, which said, or was made to 
 say, in reply to the «o of the parliament, " Take me these 
 people to Mont Saint-Michel !" 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 THE PRIEST AND THE HUGUENOT. 
 
 Louis XV. had reached the middle of the gallery, when two 
 hands were extended towards him. Two men presented one 
 a letter, tlie other a sealed paper. 
 
 Upon mutually perceiving each other, for they did not ap- 
 pear to have done so before, these two men both looked equally 
 
 * The members of the Parliaments, as a body, were spoken of fa- 
 miliarly as Messieurs; Gentlemen. — [Tr.] 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 293 
 
 surprised. When the king had passed on, carrying the two 
 petitions with him, they were seen to accost each other with a, 
 certain e;igcrness ; 
 
 " The third meeting," exclaimed one. 
 
 " You see," replied the other, " that a rendezvous would have 
 been superfluous." 
 
 " But here, at Versailles !— You !— " 
 
 " Do you think that I am in more danger here than at 
 Niines?" 
 
 " And if you were discovered — !" 
 
 " Do not say if. The address which I have just presented 
 to the king — " 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 " It is signed." 
 
 " Then fly, for God's sake, fly, before he has looked at it ! — " 
 
 " Fly 1 If I had come here to do that, I might as well have 
 staid away. Besides, I have demanded an audience of the king. 
 So he can have me whenever he will. Are you coming to the 
 chapel ?" 
 
 " Yes, but are you going, — you 1" 
 
 " I am going. Is it not to-day that our abbe is to preach 1" 
 
 " Without doubt. But the mass ?" 
 
 " I shall hear the mass." 
 
 " And you will kneel f 
 
 " God forbid ! But I shall not be seen." 
 
 " Where shall you sit, then 1" 
 
 " In one of the private galleries. And you ?" 
 
 " Wherever I can." 
 
 Rabaut found some one at the entrance of the chapel, who 
 appeared to be waiting for him. He followed him into a 
 neighboring corrvior, and Bridaine mingled with the crowd. 
 
 25* 
 
294 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER . H I G H MASS. 
 
 The king was seated, and the mass was about to begin. 
 The duke de Eichelieu, behind him, still held in his hand the 
 two papers presented in the gallery, for the king, as was the 
 custom, had only held them a moment, and then handed them 
 to him. The duke, as first gentleman to the king, had the right 
 to open all that was addressed to him. 
 
 '' However, this was a right which Richelieu did not usually 
 display any groat eagerness to exercise. The petitions which 
 were not supported by powerful recommendations, had often 
 long to wait before he took the trouble to read them, and still 
 longer before he reported them to the king. The king, on his 
 side, troubled himself little about what became of them, or 
 what the petitioners might think of the delay. 
 
 The two just received might have shared the common fate, 
 if Kichelieu chancing to cast his eyes upon one of the envelopes, 
 had not seen these words ; " To be read immediately." His 
 irst impulse was to pronounce the petitioner very bold and 
 very ill mannered. Tlien he thrust the paper into his pocket, 
 and if there had been a fire near him we will not answer for it 
 that he would not have thrown it in immediately. He changed 
 his mind however. This letter may be of great importance, he 
 thought. So he took it out again, read it and then looked 
 greatly embarrassed. He was perceived to lean over towards 
 tne duke de Gesvres, whisper a few words, and hand him the 
 paper. The duke after reading it rapidly returned it, pointing 
 to the king. His opinion evidently was that it should imme- 
 diately be given to him ; and Richelieu accordingly, stretching 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 295 
 
 his hand over the back of the king's arm-chair laid it, open, 
 before his eyes. All this passed in two or three minutes, and 
 the mass had not yet commenced. The king began to read, 
 making a sign that there should be a moment's delay. 
 
 There was a sudden movement of curiosity scarcely restrain- 
 ed by his presence, and extending in an instant to the remotest 
 corners of the chapel. All eyes were upon the king, and were 
 only withdrawn from his face to question that of Eichelieu ; 
 but the duke was too near the king to be able to say anything 
 to any one, even in a low voice, so profound was the silence. 
 In front, upon the seat of the bishops, was an old prelate, whose 
 agitation was visible to his neighbors, Richelieu had been seen 
 to intimate to him by a sign that he was interested in the 
 affair. 
 
 In the meantime the king continued to read. He had soon 
 reached the close of the letter, then he had begun to read it 
 again more slowly. He was perceived to pause at certain 
 passages with an air of surprise and embarrassment. At 
 length, as if he had suddenly formed a resolution, he abruptly 
 folded the letter, put it into his pocket, and give the signal for 
 the service to begin. 
 
 During the mass he appeared sometimes devout, and then 
 again absent and agitated. Towards the close he became 
 calmer, but during the performance of the orchestra, Richelieu 
 had spoken to the duke de Gesvres, and some words of their 
 conversation had circulated from seat to seat. There was no 
 longer any doubt ; it was something about the sermon. 
 
 And in fact the king rose as soon as the mass was ended. 
 In an instant all rose and he went out as he had entered, be- 
 tween the duke de Richelieu and the captain of his guards. 
 
296 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 THE abba's uneasiness. THE LETTER. TOTAL DISCOMFITURE. 
 
 Upon the movement which followed his departure, a man 
 might have been seen in the vestry, who until then seated, 
 quickly rose, ran to the door, listened, though without opening 
 it, and listened again, in the most violent agitation. 
 
 This man was the abbe de Narniers. He had heard the 
 conclusion of the mass, and only awaited the beadle who was 
 to conduct him to the pulpit. What was the meaning of this 
 noise 1 He could understand nothing — nothing but what he 
 trembled to understand, namely, that the king had left, for it 
 was impossible to suppose that such a noise could take place 
 while he was present. 
 
 His uncertainty was not of long duration. The bishop of 
 Meaux entered, in a state of indescribable perturbation. 
 
 " All is lost !" he cried, as he dropped upon the seat which 
 the abbe had just left. 
 
 The abbe grew pale. His limbs trembled beneath him. 
 He had not even strength enough to ask an explanation. 
 
 " All is lost," repeated his uncle ; " the king received a letter 
 during the mass—" 
 
 " From whom f ' 
 
 " How should I know ? And he has gone away — " 
 
 '• But it is some treachery ! I shall be the laughing-stock 
 of the whole court." 
 
 " Do not let them have time to talk. Make haste — " 
 
 " Make haste !— To do what 1" 
 
 " Why to preach !" 
 
 " To preach 1 1 1 Why what is the sense of the sermon if 
 the king is not there 1" 
 
THE HUGUENOT, 297 
 
 " You must change — " 
 
 "In the state I am in! — I should stumhle at the first 
 word." 
 
 " Good heavens ! — You will give it up V 
 
 " Listen. There is still one chance. It is that you should 
 hasten after the king." 
 
 " I !" 
 
 " You — And if you love your nephew you will do it. You 
 will ask him how I have deserved this insult, — ^in what I have — 
 But go, go — he will come back — " 
 
 " He will not come back. And suppose he should, what 
 are you "thinkmg of? I to run after him, to bring him back ! 
 Then, truly, you would be laughed at, — I should be laughed 
 at." 
 
 " Time presses. — ^The noise increases. — Will you save me ? 
 yes or no." 
 
 " But^" 
 
 " Will you ?— Well,— go to the king." 
 
 The abbe no longer supplicated, he commanded, and the 
 poor uncle was accustomed to obey. He sprang as quickly as 
 his age would permit into an exterior corridor, precipitately 
 ascended a staircase, and arrived, half dead in the grand gallery. 
 But he did not regret his trouble, for he perceived the king. 
 
 The king was talking with the duke de Kichelieu in a win- 
 dow He was gesticulating with some warmth, and held the 
 fatal letter in his hand. Without giving Monsieur de Nar 
 niers time to open his mouth, he placed it in his hand. 
 
 It was as follows : 
 
 " Sire, — ^A great scandal is preparing. The sermon which 
 your Majesty is about to hear is an apology for a connec- 
 tion which you may indeed unhappily lack the courage to 
 
298 THE PBIEST AND 
 
 dissolve, but of which I will venture to hope that you do not 
 intend religion to become the apologist. 
 
 " Since then there exists a priest who is so forgetful of his 
 duty as to degrade the Christian pulpit thus far, it is for you, 
 sire, to prevent the completion of such a scandal. 
 
 " Let your Majesty quit the chapel after the mass. You 
 will give thereby to the preacher, to the court, and to your- 
 self, a lesson which with God's help will not be lost. 
 
 " Bridaine." 
 
 The bishop returned the letter without a word. This name 
 completed his annihilation. 
 
 " Is he right V said the king. " Do you know anything of 
 this letter V 
 
 " Of the letter, no. — But Father Bridaine has heard my 
 nephew's sermon — " 
 
 " Has heard it !— Where ?" 
 
 " In my cathedral." 
 
 " The sermon has already been preached !" 
 
 " Oh ! sire ! there was no one there. It was at night. — By 
 way of practice — " 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 The king smiled, the marshal laughed. This completed the 
 bishop's confusion and bewilderment. 
 
 " You see, sire," he said, " this is a great liberty, — it is 
 treacherous. And what right has a simple priest to write, to 
 your Majesty f 
 
 " Every one has the right to warn me of a trap," said the 
 king. " And this, no offence to you, was a trap — " 
 
 " But, sire, in God's name ! what will become of my 
 nephew 1 ' I «hall be the laughing-stock of the court,' he said 
 t.) nic— " 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 299 
 
 " And vou would have preferred that I should be 1" 
 
 " Is there no hope, then — none V 
 
 " None. And he loiows it moreover, for I have sent him 
 word not to attempt to enter the pulpit." 
 
 The bishop retreated with a sigh. 
 
 As he drew near the chapel, the sentinel on duty in the cor- 
 ridor saw him suddenly stop, listen, and join his hands with 
 an air of profound amazement. A powerful and manly voice, 
 which was little like that of his nephew, resounded through the 
 chapel. Moreover there was no longer sound or motion. One 
 would have fancied the church empty, so freely did this voice 
 vibrate through it, so loudly did it echo far through the corri- 
 dors and courts. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 TUB T. A STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 What then had taken place 1 
 
 The bishop had scarcely quitted the vestry, when his nephew 
 the colonel rushed in, swearing and vociferating, and satisfied 
 with nothing less than cutting the throat of the author of the 
 letter. His brother all agitated as he was himself, had been 
 obliged to quiet him. Incapable of comprehending that the 
 letter might have been dictated by conscience, he looked upon 
 it only as an atrocious insult to his brother, to himself, and to 
 his family. 
 
 " But," said the abbe, who was enabled to contain himself 
 by the sight of his brother's fury, "we have not yet read 
 this letter, — we do not know its contents. No rashness until 
 we have found out." 
 
 " Rascally priest !" 
 
 "What priest r 
 
300 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 " What priest ? What ! has it not entered your head that 
 it can be no other than your priest of Meaux, — your Father — " 
 
 "Bridaine! He! Write to the king! Yes, — in truth — 
 who else should it be 1 And our uncle does not return ! The 
 noise increases ! What a position ! Good heavens ! what 
 torture ! And it must be Father Bridaine who — " 
 
 " It is he, Monsieur," said Bridaine, entering. 
 
 They stood petrified. His glance was not easy to support. 
 
 " Monsieur," he resumed, " there is no time now for explana^ 
 tions. The pulpit awaits you. Are you going to enter it V 
 
 "No." 
 
 "■You complete your disgrace?" 
 
 " I am resigned to it." 
 
 " Well, do you wish that I should save you V 
 
 "Youf 
 
 " Yes, I. Is your manuscript there ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Listen. I will take it. I will enter the pulpit, — I will 
 announce that you are suddenly prevented from preaching — 
 that you have put your discourse into my hands. I will read 
 it. I will omit what is evil, and arrange what is good. This 
 is what I propose to you. Do you agree V 
 
 " But—" 
 
 " Do you accept my offer ?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " Quick — your surplice— adieu." 
 
 And scarcely had he put on the second sleeve, when he was 
 already in the chapel. 
 
 And only then, greatly embarrassed by his mission, arrived 
 the gentleman whom the king had despatched to the abbe to 
 forbid hiiu to preach. 
 
 Bridaine was by this time in the pulpit. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 301 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 BBIDAINE IN THE PULPIT. 
 
 Few knew him by sight ; but he had scarcely entered, before 
 his name, whispered by five or six tongues, was repeated by 
 five hundred. A flutter of curiosity, soon followed by a pro- 
 found silence, was produced by his appearance in the place 
 where the abbe had been expected. 
 
 " My brethren," he said, " the preacher of to-day, suddenly 
 detained, has placed his discourse in my hands. I shall en- 
 deavor to supply his place. Aid me with your attention, and 
 may God himself open your hearts to the instructions of His 
 word." 
 
 Then he made the usual sign of the cross, and with that voice 
 which seemed attuned to the spirit of Saint Paul, read the text 
 which had been so agreeably marred at Mcaux by the effem- 
 inate voice of the abbe de Narniers : 
 
 " Nihil aliud inter vos scire vohti, nisi Christum, ei Christum 
 crucifixum." 
 
 He began. The audience was all eyes and ears. 
 
 " Thus Saint Paul expressed himself ; the apostle whom 
 God had chosen to spread among the heathen the teachings, the 
 examples of Jesus Christ." 
 
 This was the abbe's beginning, the pathos excepted. The 
 great apostle had become Saint Paul ; Providence, God ; the 
 virtues of Christ, His example; the Legislator of Christians, 
 Jesus Christ, and so on. These slight alterations substituted 
 the Christian for the philosopher, the heart for the head, elo- 
 quence for idle words. Just as in music, it sometimes requires 
 but one note added or better placed to give life where it was 
 
 26 
 
302 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 wanting ; so in eloquence, frequently a word, or a syllable, or 
 an inflection of the voice, completely changes the character of 
 a whole passage. 
 
 But it will be remembered that there was more than one 
 place in which only an entire re-oonstruction could change the 
 impious nonsense of the abbe into a Christian discourse. Ac- 
 cordingly, the more Bridaine left the thread of the abbe's 
 composition, the more he felt himself at his ease ; but as the 
 ensemble of the discourse had been retained by him in his 
 memory since he heard it at Meaux, he was able to fall back 
 again with rare felicity into the ingenious plan from which he 
 had temporarily departed. This sermon, from his lips, was 
 an admirable mixture of regularity as to construction and free- 
 dom of detail. He resolved, without knowing it, one of the 
 fundamental problems of eloquence. 
 
 He was accordingly himself agreeably surprised, as the 
 sermon progressed, to find what a value it assumed in his 
 hands. Until now profoundly disdaining everything which 
 betmyed art, he was forced to confess to himself that if art by 
 itself is a very small thing, yet when employed by the soul, it 
 is one of the grandest things within the bounds of human 
 reason. He comprehended that' neither he nor the fimciful 
 preacher, nor the court preacher, nor the formal preacher, was 
 the true orator, but he who should unite and mould them, all 
 into one. 
 
 The audience had no time nor inclination to form theories in 
 regard to what they felt, but the impression received was all 
 the more powerful in consequence. They felt themselves in a 
 new world. The preachers of Versailles were not all like the 
 abb6 de Narniers ; but there was only one Bridaine in France. 
 It was he who was speaking to them now ; he who was hailed 
 with joy by those who had heard him in other pulpits ; he, in 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 303 
 
 short, -without his usual inequalities, without the defects which 
 would have injured the eiTects of his eloquence at Versailles. 
 
 And accordingly his success was complete, and could only 
 go on increasing. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 THREE HEARERS. " NO MAN CAN SERVE TWO MASTERS." 
 
 But there were three men present, who, under the influence 
 of very different emotions, listened, nevertheless, with equal 
 eagerness. 
 
 One was the abbe de Narniers. The door remained half 
 open, and allowed all the accents of this powerful voice to 
 reach him. Seated, motionless, with his hands hanging help- 
 lessly, he seemed lilce a man who, by some wonderful hallu- 
 cination, was present at the dissection of his own body. 
 
 The other was Eabaut. An officer of the prince de Conti 
 had placed him in an elevated tribune nearly opposite to the 
 orator. 
 
 The other, who was not Imown to be in the chapel, was the 
 king. He learned what had talien place, and had ascended by 
 a private staircase into a gallery where he was entirely hidden 
 from view by a curtain. 
 
 The first words which he heard belonged to the very passage 
 in which the author had taken so much pains to introduce, 
 under cover of Saint Paul, the scandalous praises of which we 
 have spoken. But how this fragile edifice crumbled away 
 under the powerful hand of Bridaine ! How easily were these 
 praises of the master altered to a satire upon the servants ! 
 In place of saying that the king was too great, too fortunate, 
 too completely surrounded by magnificence, to give occasion 
 
304 THE PRIEST AND 
 
 for such devotion as that of Saint Paul to Jesus Christ, the 
 despised, the crucified, he cried ; 
 
 " Assuredly this is a devotcdness which is nowhere rarer 
 than among you, denizens of the court, adorers of credit and 
 power ! And yet, judging from outside show, nowhere ia 
 devotedness more common and entire. Yes ! nowhere is it 
 better known how to give up everytliing to one's friends, one's 
 coimtry, one's king. But first, — and frequently there is no 
 pains taken to conceal this, — it must be certain that the advan 
 tage tcj be gained is secure, and not far distant ; it must be 
 ascei'tained that all will be seen, counted, paid ! And would 
 that it were only in regard to terrestrial things that these cal- 
 culations were made ! But no, — in religion, as in everything 
 else, interest must speak, payment must be made. You attach 
 no price to the peace and salvation which God causes to ripen 
 in the soul of the righteous, a gradual but never-failing reward 
 for true piety. If you serve God, it is for the sake of men. 
 Your devotion to God is but one of the thousand forms of 
 your devotion to the world !" 
 
 Thus spoke Bridaine ; but this is only the simple statement 
 of his irresistible suliject. It was grand to see how he handled 
 it, stirring up the ideas with his powerful hand, and arriving at 
 length, more inexorably than, ever at this conclusion, apparently 
 so common, but so little comprehended in reality, and so 
 terrifying, — that " no man can serve two masters," and that if 
 he is the friend of the world, he is necessarily the enemy of 
 God. There is no grander sight in the world, than that of tlie 
 sacred orator chasing a company of men before him, narrowing 
 step by step the space in which he permits them to move, and 
 bringing them all breathless to a stand between the law which 
 condemns and the cross which saves. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 305 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 CHARACTER OF SAINT PAUL. ■WHERE ARE THE MARTYRS OF OUR 
 
 DAY? REPLY OF BRIDAINe's HEART. 
 
 Until now however, with the exception of his vehement 
 maimer and the impressiveness of his details, Bridaine was in 
 the beaten track. Another might have said all that he had, 
 though with less vigor and zeal. He had not yet arrived, and 
 he was fully sensible of this, — at the true centre of his subject. 
 When Saint Paul says that he wishes to know nothing else 
 " but Christ and Christ crucified," he evidently implies far more 
 than the simple idea of devotion to Jesus Christ as to a power- 
 ful and good master. It is the sinner who declares that he will 
 seek salvation through none other ; it is human pride which 
 abdicates and casts at the foot of the cross its virtues, its learn- 
 ing, all the false treasures of the old man, all the glories and all 
 the merits of the flesh. It was accordingly in spite of himself 
 that the orator had confined himself, like the author, to the sub- 
 ject of devotion ; but this subject already so expanded by his 
 faith and eloquence, had another aspect which was particularly 
 attractive to his imagination and his heart. 
 
 The character of Saint Paul, — -that type of the apostle, had 
 rivetted his attention for forty years. He had from his youth 
 nourished the strong spirit of emulation, which We saw him feel 
 at Meaux, before the tomb of Bossuet, by meditation upon the 
 life of Saint Paul. The apostle of the Gentiles had become 
 his ideal. Sometimes he fancied that by devotion, labors and 
 prayer, he should come at last to follow in his footsteps, at not 
 too great a distance; — again he seemed to grow greater in 
 proportion to his efforts to emulate him. Then a noble despair 
 took possession of his soul. He asked himself bitterly, where, 
 
 26* 
 
306 THE PRIEST AKD 
 
 in the sight of God, was the merit of these labors without peril. 
 Not that he did not feel himself ready, should opportunity 
 offer, to brave persecutions and death, — but after all the trial 
 had not been made, and who until it had, could be sure of 
 coming off conqueror 1 He dared not believe in his courage ; 
 he dared not be satisfied with a zeal which had gained him 
 honors only. He felt himself forever inferior to him who had 
 never been able to say a word without exposing himself to the 
 possibility of being called to seal it with his blood. 
 
 Consequently, whenever he had to speak of Saint Paul, he 
 was agitated by an emotion so deep and true that it could not 
 fail to communicate itself to the minds of his hearers. Although 
 he habitually avoided bringing himself forward, he could not 
 on these occasions conceal this page of his own secret history 
 from the eyes even of the least penetrating. This minghng of 
 enthusiasm and alarm, of discouragement and courage, received 
 from him the most dramatic coloring. Whatever inclination 
 his hearers might have, — as is the case with the greatest num- 
 ber, — to neglect the application of the close of the sermon, they 
 were irresistibly brought in listening to him to say ; " If he, 
 after forty years of labor, fears that he has not done enough for 
 his master, what is to become of us, good God ! of us who have 
 done so little !" • 
 
 Such then was the feeling with which, towards the close, he 
 began to delineate the apostle's character. He had gradually 
 laid aside the abbo's manuscript; for sometime, he had no 
 longer even glanced at it. The attention of all was redoubled. 
 He and he only, was now to speak. 
 
 We will not follow him through the details of this eloquent 
 peroration. The further he advanced the more he seemed to 
 forget time, place, audience, and even his subject. He seemed 
 to stand alone, before God. 
 
THE HUGUENOT. 307 
 
 " I approach," he said ; " I raise my eyes. The judgment 
 seat is prepared ; the judge is seated thereon in his terrible 
 majesty. ' What wilt thou, sinner V ' Lord it is not I who 
 will. An invisible hand impelled me towards thy throne ; a 
 voice said to me ; Be thou judged.' ' What dost thou bring ? 
 ' Lord, I have labored, have striven for thy glory.' ' Where 
 are thy wounds V ' I have none.' ' What death hast thou 
 braved 1' 'None.' And then I perceive, surrounding the 
 throne, all the martyrs who have died for their faith. And 
 their master casts upon them a look of joy and love. I* turn 
 away weeping, and say to myself; ' alas ! what right have I to 
 a place among them.' " 
 
 " Yes," continued Bridaine, " where are the martyrs in this 
 age of indifference ? What blood has flowed 1 What blood 
 would flow if the axe of old time were again to be sharpened 1 
 In vain I demand, — in vain I search — " 
 
 Suddenly it might have been imagined that a vision dazzled 
 his eyes and paralyzed his tongue. O Bridaine ! Dost thou 
 say " I seek in vain," — while there, before thee, is a man, a 
 missionary, an apostle, who for twenty years has sported with 
 death. Thou knowest that he has been a score of times upon 
 the point of receiving that bloody baptism which thou dost 
 envy Saint Paul. But behold thou hast made thyself a heart 
 after the fashion of thy church. How shouldst thou call those 
 martyrs, whom she has slain 1 
 
 He had however, perceived the minister, and the bigotry of 
 the catholic was dissipated by a christian glance. At the 
 moment when he said, " I seek in vain," — ^Rabaut seeing him 
 suddenly fix his eyes upon him, had not been able to suppress 
 a half-smile ; and this smile, in which were mingled pride, hu 
 mility, reproach, and pardon, had penetrated to Bridaine's very 
 soul. If he could he would have thrown himself into the arms 
 
308 THE PRIEST AND THE HCGUESfOT. 
 
 of this man whom his Church commanded him to curse. A 
 holy radiance seemed to him to surround this head upon which 
 a price was set. 
 
 " In vain I seek," he resumed, slowly. " But no. Let us 
 leave to God the care of deciding who are his, and who if 
 necessary would take the place of the ancient martyrs. Here, 
 perhaps even here, there are those who would give their life 
 f jr their faith. Here, — perhaps even here. Let us be silent. 
 Their names are written above. The book will one day be 
 opened to our eternal shame or our eternal glory." 
 
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