The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli
of Christ 'there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed'—and, 'whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be revealed in light.' The latter words are almost appalling in their absolute accord with the latest triumphant discoveries of science."
Abbe Vergniaud looked at the Cardinal, and slightly raised his eyebrows in a kind of wondering protest.
"TRES-SAINT Felix!" he murmured, "Are you turning into a mystic? One of those doubtful personages who are seeking to reconcile science with the Church?—"
"Stop!" interposed the Cardinal, raising his hand with an eloquent gesture, "Science is, or should be, the Church!—science is Truth, and Truth is God! God cannot be found anywhere in a lie; and the Church in many ways would make our Divine Redeemer Himself a lie were it not that His words are every day taking fresh meaning, and bringing new and solemn conviction to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear!"
He spoke as if carried beyond himself,—his pale cheeks glowed,—his eyes flashed fire,—and the combined effect of his words and manner was startling to the Abbe, and in a way stupefying to his niece Angela. She had never heard him give utterance to such strong sentiments and she shrank a little within herself, wondering whether as a Cardinal of the Roman Church he had not been too free of speech. She glanced apprehensively at Vergniaud, who however only smiled a little.
"If you should be disposed to express yourself in such terms at the
Vatican,—" he began.
The Cardinal relapsed into his usual calm, and met the Abbe's questioning, half cynical glance composedly. "I have many things to speak of at the Vatican," he answered,—"This matter will probably be one of them."
"Then—" But whatever Vergniaud was about to say was interrupted by the entrance of the boy Manuel, who at that moment came into the room and stood beside the Cardinal's chair. The Abbe gave him an upward glance of surprise and admiration.
"Whom have we here?" he exclaimed, "One of your acolytes, Monseigneur?"
"No," replied the Cardinal, his eyes resting on the fair face of the lad with a wistful affection, "A little stray disciple of our Lord,—to whom I have ventured to offer protection. There is none to question my right to do so, for he is quite alone in the world."
And in a few words he related how he had discovered the boy on the previous night, weeping outside the Cathedral in Rouen. Angela Sovrani listened attentively, her violet eyes darkening and deepening as she heard,—now and then she raised them to look at the youthful waif who stood so quietly while the story of his troubles was told in the gentle and sympathetic way which was the Cardinal's usual manner of speech, and which endeared him so much to all. "And for the present," finished Bonpre, smiling—"he stays with me, and already I have found him skilled in the knowledge of many things,—he can read Scripture with a most musical and clear emphasis,—and he is a quick scribe, so that he will be valuable to me in more ways than one."
"Ah!" and the Abbe turned himself round in his chair to survey the boy more attentively, "You can read Scripture? But can you understand it? If you can, you are wiser than I am!"
Manuel regarded him straightly.
"Was it not once said in Judaea that "IT IS THE SPIRIT THAT
QUICKENETH'?" he asked.
"True!—And from that you would infer . . . ?"
"That when one cannot understand Scripture, it is perhaps for the reason that 'THE LETTER KILLETH, BECAUSE LACKING THE SPIRIT THAT GIVETH LIFE."
The boy spoke gently and with grace and modesty,—but something in the tone of his voice had a strange effect on the cynical temperament of Abbe Vergniaud.
"Here," he mused, "is a lad in whom the principle of faith is strong and pure,—shall I drop the poison of doubt into the open flower of his mind, or leave it uncontaminated?" Aloud he said, kindly,
"You speak well,—you have evidently thought for yourself. Who taught you to recognise 'the Spirit that giveth life'?"
Manuel smiled.
"Does that need teaching?" he asked.
Radiance shone in his eyes,—the look of purity and candour on his young face was infinitely touching to the two men who beheld it,—the one worn with age and physical languors, the other equally worn in mind, if not in body. In the brief silence which followed,—a silence of unexpressed feeling,—a soft strain of organ-music came floating deliciously towards them,—a delicate thread of grave melody which wove itself in and out the airspaces, murmuring suggestions of tenderness and appeal. Angela smiled, and held up one finger, listening.
"That is Mr. Leigh!" she said, "He is in my studio improvising."
"Happy Mr. Leigh!" said the Abbe with a little malicious twinkle in his eyes, "To be allowed to improvise at all in the studio of the Sovrani!"
Angela flushed, and lifted her fair head with a touch of pride.
"Mr. Leigh is a friend," she said, "He is welcome in the studio always.
His criticism of a picture is valuable,—besides—he is a celebrated
Englishman!" She laughed, and her eyes flashed.
"Ah! To a celebrated Englishman all things are conceded!" said the Abbe satirically, "Even the right to enter the sanctum of the most exclusive lady in Europe! Is it not a curious thing that the good Britannia appears to stick her helmet on the head, and put her sceptre in the hand of every one of her sons who condescends to soil his boots by walking on foreign soil? With the helmet he defies the gemdarme,—with the sceptre he breaks open every door,—we prostrate ourselves before his face and curse him behind his back,—c'est drole!—yet we are all alike, French, Germans, Austrians, and Italians;—we hate the Englishman, but we black his boots all the same,—which is contemptible of us,—MAIS, QUE FAIRE! He is so overwhelming in sheer impudence! With culture and politeness we might cross swords in courtly duel,—but in the presence of absolute bluff, or what is called 'cheek', we fall flat in sheer dismay! What delicious music! I see that it charms our young friend,—he is fond of music."
"Yes," said Manuel speaking for himself before any question could be put to him, "I love it! It is like the fresh air,—full of breath and life."
"Come then with me," said Angela, "Come into the studio and we will hear it more closely. Dearest uncle," and she knelt for a moment by the Cardinal's chair, "Will you come there also when Monsieur l'Abbe has finished talking with you?"
Cardinal Bonpre's hand rested lovingly on her soft hair.
"Yes, my child, I will come." And in a lower tone he added,—"Do not speak much to Manuel,—he is a strange lad; more fond of silence and prayer than other things,—and if such is his temperament I would rather keep him so."
Angela bowed her head in acquiescence to this bidding,—then rising, left the room with a gentle gesture of invitation to the boy, who at once followed her. As the two disappeared a chill and a darkness seemed to fall upon the air, and the Cardinal sank back among the cushions of his fauteuil with a deep sigh of utter exhaustion. Abbe Vergniaud glanced at him inquisitively.
"You are very tired, I fear?" he said.
"Physically, no,—mentally, yes. Spiritually, I am certainly fatigued to the death."
The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.
"Helas! There is truly much in spiritual matters to engender weariness!" he said.
With a sudden access of energy the Cardinal gripped both arms of his chair and sat upright.
"For God's sake, do not jest," he said earnestly, "Do not jest! We have all been jesting too long, and the time is near when we shall find out the bitter cost of it! Levity—carelessness—doubt and final heresy—I do not mean heresy against the Church, for that is nothing—"
"Nothing!" exclaimed the Abbe, "YOU say this?"
"I say it!" And Bonpre's thin