Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

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He closed the Testament, and being thoroughly fatigued in body as
well as mind, he at last retired. Lying down contentedly upon the
hard and narrow bed which was the best the inn provided, he murmured
his usual prayer,--"If this should be the sleep of death, Jesus
receive my soul!"--and remained for a little while with his eyes
open, looking at the white glory of the moonlight as it poured
through his lattice window and formed delicate traceries of silver
luminance on the bare wooden floor. He could just see the dark
towers of Notre Dame from where he lay,--a black mass in the
moonbeams--a monument of half-forgotten history--a dream of
centuries, hallowed or blasphemed by the prayers and aspirations of
dead and gone multitudes who had appealed to the incarnate God-in-
Man before its altars. God-in-Man had been made manifest!--how long
would, the world have to wait before Man-in-God was equally created
and declared? For that was evidently intended to be the final
triumph of the Christian creed.

"We should have gained such a victory long ago," mused Cardinal
Bonpre--"only that we ourselves have set up stumbling-blocks, and
rejected God at every step of the way."

Closing his eyes he soon slept; the rays of the moon fell upon his
pale face and silvery hair like a visible radiant benediction,--and
the bells of the city chimed the hours loudly and softly, clanging
in every direction, without waking him from his rest. But slumbering
as he was, he had no peace,--for in his sleep he was troubled by a
strange vision.

IV.

As the terrors of imagined suffering are always worse than actual
pain, so dreams are frequently more vivid than the reality of life,-
-that is we are sure that life is indeed reality, and not itself a
dream within a dream. Cardinal Bonpre's sleep was not often
disturbed by affrighting visions,--his methods of daily living were
too healthy and simple, and his conscience too clear;--but on this
particular night he was visited by an impression rather than a
dream,--the impression of a lonely, and terrifying dreariness, as
though the whole world were suddenly emptied of life and left like a
hollow shell on the shores of time. Gradually this first sense of
utter and unspeakable loss changed into a startled consciousness of
fear;--some awful transformation of things familiar was about to be
consummated;--and he felt the distinct approach of some unnameable
Horror which was about to convulse and overwhelm all mankind. Then
in his dream, a great mist rose up before his eyes,--a mingling as
of sea-fog and sun-flame,--and as this in turn slowly cleared,--
dispersing itself in serpentine coils of golden-grey vapour,--he
found himself standing on the edge of a vast sea, glittering in a
light that was neither of earth nor of heaven, but that seemed to be
the inward reflection of millions of flashing sword blades. And as
he stood gazing across the width of the waters, the sky above him
grew black, and a huge ring of fire rose out of the east, instead of
the beloved and familiar sun,--fire that spread itself in belching
torrents of flame upward and downward, and began to absorb in its
devouring heat the very sea. Then came a sound of many thunders,
mingled with the roar of rising waters and the turbulence of a great
whirlwind,--and out of the whirlwind came a Voice saying--"Now is
the end of all things on the earth,--and the whole world shall be
burnt up as a dead leaf in a sudden flame! And we will create from
out its ashes new heavens and a new earth, and we will call forth
new beings wherewith to people the fairness of our fresh creation,--
for the present generation of mankind hath rejected God,--and God
henceforth rejecteth His faithless and unworthy creatures! Wherefore
let now this one dim light amid the thousand million brighter lights
be quenched,--let the planet known to all angels as the Sorrowful
Star fall from its sphere forever,--let the Sun that hath given it
warmth and nourishment be now its chief Destroyer, and let
everything that hath life within it, perish utterly and revive no
more!"

And Cardinal Felix heard these words of doom. Powerless to move or
speak, he stood watching the terrible circle of fire, extend and
expand, till all the visible universe seemed melting in one red
furnace of flame;--and in himself he felt no hope,--no chance of
rescue;--in himself he knew that the appalling work of destruction
was being accomplished with a deadly swiftness that left no time for
lamentation,--that the nations of the world were as flying straws
swept into the burning, without space or moment for a parting prayer
or groan. Tortured by an excruciating agony too great for tears, he
suddenly found voice, and lifting his face towards the lurid sky he
cried aloud--

"God of Eternity, stay Thy hand! For one remaining Cause be
merciful! Doom not Thy creature Man to utter destruction!--but still
remember that Thou wast born even as he! As helpless, as wronged, as
tempted, as betrayed, as suffering, as prone to pain and death! Thou
hast lived his life and endured his sorrows, though in the perfect
glory of Thy Godhead Thou hast not sinned! Have patience yet, oh
Thou great Splendour of all worlds! Have patience yet, Thou outraged
and blasphemed Creator! Break once again Thy silence as of old and
speak to us!--pity us once again ere Thou slay us utterly,--come to
us even as Thou earnest in Judaea, and surely we will receive Thee
and obey Thee, and reject Thy love no more!"

As he thus prayed he was seized with a paralysing fear,--for
suddenly the red and glowing chaos of fire above him changed into
soft skies tinged with the exquisite pearl-grey hues of twilight,
and he became conscious of the approach of a great invisible
Presence, whose awful unseen beauty overwhelmed him with its
sublimity and majesty, causing him to forget altogether that he
himself existed. And Someone spoke,--in grave sweet accents, so soft
and close to him that the words seemed almost whispered in his
ears,--

"Thy prayer is heard,--and once again the silence shall be broken.
Nevertheless remember that 'the light shineth in darkness and the
darkness comprehendeth it not'."

Deep silence followed. The mysterious Presence melted as it were
into space,--and the Cardinal awoke, trembling violently and bathed
in a cold perspiration. He gazed bewilderedly around him, his mind
still confused and dazzled by the strong visionary impression of the
burning heavens and sea,--and he could not for a moment realize
where he was. Then, after a while, he recognised the humble
furniture of the room he occupied, and through the diamond-shaped
panes of the little lattice window, perceived the towers of Notre
Dame, now gleaming with a kind of rusty silver in the broader
radiance of the fully uplifted moon.

"It was a dream," he murmured,--"A dream of the end of the world!"
He shuddered a little as he thought of the doom pronounced upon the
earth,--the planet "known to all angels as the Sorrowful Star"--"Let
the Sun that hath given it warmth and nourishment be now its chief
Destroyer."

According to modern scientists, such was indeed the precise way in
which the world was destined to come to an end. And could anything
be more terrifying than the thought that the glorious Orb, the maker
of day and generator of all beauty, should be destined to hurl from
its shining centre death and destruction upon the planet it had from
creation vivified and warmed! The Vision had shown the devastating
ring of fire rising from that very quarter of the heavens where the
sun should have been radiantly beaming,--and as Felix Bonpre dwelt
upon the picture in his mind, and remembered his own wild prayer to
the Eternal, a great uneasiness and dread overwhelmed him.

"God's laws can never be altered;" he said aloud--"Every evil deed
brings its own punishment; and if the world's wickedness becomes too
great an offence in the eyes of the Almighty, it follows that the
world must be destroyed. What am I that I should pray against Divine
Justice! For truly we have had our chance of rescue and salvation;--
the Way,--the Truth,--and the Life have been given to us through
Christ our Redeemer; and if we reject Him, we reject all, and we
have but ourselves to blame."

At that moment a plaintive wailing, as of some human creature in
distress broke on his ears through the deep silence of the night. He
listened attentively, and the sorrowful sound was repeated,--a
desolate yet gentle cry as of some sick and suffering child. Moved
by a sudden impulse the Cardinal rose, and going to the window
looked anxiously out, and down into the street below. Not a living
creature was to be seen. The moonlight spread itself in a vast
silver glory over the whole width of the square, and the delicate
sculpture of the great rose-window of the Cathedral, centrally
suspended between the two tall towers, looked in the fine pale
radiance like a giant spider's web sparkling with fairy dew. Again--
again!--that weary sobbing cry! It went to the Cardinal's heart, and
stirred him to singular pain and pity.

"Surely it is some lost or starving creature," he said--"Some poor
soul seeking comfort in a comfortless world." Hastily throwing on
his garments he left his room, treading cautiously in order not to
disturb the sleeping household,--and feeling his way down the short,
dark staircase, he easily reached the door and passed noiselessly
out into the square. Walking a few steps hurriedly he paused, once
more listening. The night was intensely calm;--not a cloud crossed
the star-spangled violet dome of air wherein the moon soared
serenely, bathing all visible things in a crystalline brilliancy so
pure and penetrative, that the finest cuttings on the gigantic grey
facade of Notre Dame could be discerned and outlined as distinctly
as though every little portion were seen through a magnifying glass.
The Cardinal's tall attenuated figure, standing alone and almost in
the centre of the square, cast a long thin black shadow on the
glistening grey stones,--and his dream-impression of an empty world
came back forcibly upon him,--a world as empty as a hollow shell!
Houses there were around him, and streets, and a noble edifice
consecrated to the worship of God,--nevertheless there was a sense
of absolute desertion in and through all. Was not the Cathedral
itself the mere husk of a religion? The seed had dropped out and
sunk into the soil,--"among thorns" and "stony places" indeed,--and
some "by the wayside" to be devoured by birds of prey. Darker and
heavier grew the cloud of depression on the Cardinal's soul,--and
more and more passionate became the protest which had for a long
time been clamouring in him for utterance,--the protest of a
Churchman against the Church he served! It was terrible,--and to a
"prince of the Roman Church" hideous and unnatural; nevertheless the
protest existed, and it had in some unaccountable way grown to be
more a part of him than he himself realized.

"The world is empty because God is leaving it," he said, sorrowfully
raising his eyes to the tranquil heavens,--"and the joy of existence
is departing because the Divine and Holy Spirit of things is being
withdrawn!"

He moved on a few paces,--and once more through the deep stillness
the little sobbing cry of sorrow was wafted tremulously to his ears.
It came or seemed to come from the Cathedral, and quickening his
steps he went thither. The deeply hollowed portal, full of black
shadows, at first showed nothing but its own massively sculptured
outlines--then--all at once the Cardinal perceived standing within
the embrasured darkness, the slight shrinking figure of a child. A
boy's desolate little figure,--with uplifted hands clasped
appealingly and laid against the shut Cathedral door, and face
hidden and pressed hard upon those hands, as though in mute and
inconsolable despair. As the Cardinal softly drew nearer, a long
shuddering sigh from the solitary little creature moved his heart
anew to pity, and speaking in accents of the utmost gentleness he
said--

"My poor child, what troubles you? Why are you here all alone, and
weeping at this late hour? Have you no home?--no parents?"

Slowly the boy turned round, still resting his small delicate hands
against the oaken door of the Cathedral, and with the tears yet wet
upon his cheeks, smiled. What a sad face he had!--worn and weary,
yet beautiful!--what eyes, heavy with the dews of sorrow, yet tender
even in pain! Startled by the mingled purity and grief of so young a
countenance, the Cardinal retreated for a moment in amaze,--then
approaching more closely he repeated his former question with
increased interest and tenderness--

"Why are you weeping here alone?"

"Because I am left alone to weep," said the boy, answering in a soft
voice of vibrating and musical melancholy--"For me, the world is
empty."

An empty world! His dream-impression of universal desolation and
desertion came suddenly back upon the prelate's mind, and a sudden
trembling seized him, though he could discover in himself no cause
for fear. Anxiously he surveyed the strange and solitary little
wayfarer on the threshold of the Cathedral, and while he thus
looked, the boy said wistfully--

"I should have rested here within, but it is closed against me."

"The doors are always locked at night, my child," returned the
Cardinal, recovering from his momentary stupor and bewilderment,
"But I can give you shelter. Will you come with me?"

With a half-questioning, half-smiling look of grateful wonder, the
boy withdrew his hands from their uplifted, supplicating and almost
protesting attitude against the locked Cathedral-door, and moving
out of the porch shadows into the wide glory of the moonlight, he
confronted his interlocutor--

"Will I come with you?" he said--"Nay, but I see you are a Cardinal
of the Church, and it is I should ask 'will you receive me?' You do
not know who I am--nor where I came from, and I, alas! may not tell
you! I am alone; all--all alone,--for no one knows me in the world,-
-I am quite poor and friendless, and have nothing where--with to pay
you for your kindly shelter--I can only bless you!"

Very simply, very gravely the young boy spoke these words, his
delicate head uplifted, his face shining in the moon-rays, and his
slight, childish form erect with a grace which was not born of pride
so much as of endurance, and again the Cardinal trembled, though he
knew not why. Yet in his very agitation, the desire he had to
persuade the tired child to go with him grew stronger and
overmastered every other feeling.

"Come then," he said, smiling and extending his hand, "Come, and you
shall sleep in my room for the remainder of the night, and to-morrow
we will talk of the future. At present you need repose."

The boy smiled gratefully but said nothing, and the Cardinal,
satisfied with the mere look of assent walked with his foundling
across the square and into the Hotel Poitiers. Arrived at his own
bed-room, he smoothed his couch and settled the pillows carefully
with active zeal and tenderness. The boy stood silently, looking on.

"Sleep now, my child," said the Cardinal,--"and forget all your
troubles. Lie down here; no one will disturb you till the morning."

"But you, my lord Cardinal," said the boy--"Are you depriving
yourself of comfort in order to give it to me? This is not the way
of the world!"

"It is MY way," said the Cardinal cheerfully,--"And if the world has
been unkind to you, my boy, still take courage,--it will not always
be unjust! Do not trouble yourself concerning me; I shall sleep well
on the sofa in the next room--indeed, I shall sleep all the better
for knowing that your tears have ceased, and that for the present at
least you are safely sheltered."

With a sudden quick movement the boy advanced and caught the
Cardinal's hands caressingly in his own.

"Oh, are you sure you understand?" he said, his voice growing
singularly sweet and almost tender as he spoke--"Are you sure that
it is well for you to shelter me?--I--a stranger,--poor, and with no
one to speak for me? How do you know what I may be? Shall I not
perhaps prove ungrateful and wrong your kindness?"

His worn little face upturned, shone in the dingy little room with a
sudden brightness such as one might imagine would illumine the
features of an angel, and Felix Bonpre looked down upon him half
fascinated, in mingled pity and wonder.

"Such results are with God, my child," he said gently--"I do not
seek your gratitude. It is certainly well for me that I should
shelter you,--it would be ill indeed if I permitted any living
creature to suffer for lack of what I could give. Rest here in
peace, and remember it is for my own pleasure as well as for your
good that I desire you to sleep well."

"And you do not even ask my name?" said the boy, half smiling and
still raising his sorrowful deep blue eyes to the Cardinal's face.

"You will tell me that when you please," said Felix, laying one hand
upon the soft curls that clustered over his foundling's forehead--"I
am in no wise curious. It is enough for me to know that you are a
child and alone in the world,--such sorrow makes me your servant."

Gently the boy loosened his clasp of the Cardinal's hands.

"Then I have found a friend!" he said,--"That is very strange!" He
paused, and the smile that had once before brightened his
countenance shone again like a veritable flash of sunlight--"You
have the right to know my name, and if you choose, to call me by
it,--it is Manuel."

"Manuel!" echoed the Cardinal--"No more than that?"

"No more than that," replied the boy gravely--"I am one of the
world's waifs and strays,--one name suffices me."

There followed a brief pause, in which the old man and the child
looked at each other full and steadfastly, and once again an
inexplicable nervous trembling seized the Cardinal. Overcoming this
with an effort, he said softly,--

"Then--Manuel!--good night! Sleep--and Our Lady's blessing be upon
you!"

Signing the cross in air he retired, carefully shutting the door and
leaving his new-found charge to rest. When he was once by himself in
the next room, however, he made no attempt to sleep,--he merely drew
a chair to the window and sat down, full of thoughts which utterly
absorbed him. There was nothing unusual, surely, in his finding a
small lost boy and giving him a night's lodging?--then why was he so
affected by it? He could not tell. He fully realized that the
plaintive beauty of the child had its share in the powerful
attraction he felt,--but there was something else in the nature of
his emotion which he found it impossible to define. It was as though
some great blankness in his life had been suddenly filled;--as if
the boy whom he had found solitary and weeping within the porch of
the Cathedral of Notre Dame, belonged to him in some mysterious way
and was linked to his life so closely and completely as to make
parting impossible. But what a fantastic notion! Viewed by the light
of calm reason, there was nothing in the occurrence to give rise to
any such sentiment. Here was a poor little wayfarer, evidently
without parents, home, or friends,--and the Cardinal had given him a
night's lodging, and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow, he would give him
food and warm clothing and money,--and perhaps a recommendation to
the Archbishop in order that he might get a chance of free education
and employment in Rouen, while proper enquiries were being made
about him. That was the soberly prosaic and commonplace view to take
of the matter. The personality of the little fellow was intensely
winning,--but after all, that had nothing to do with the facts of
the case. He was a waif and stray, as he himself had said; his name,
so far as he seemed to know it, was Manuel,--an ordinary name enough
in France,--and his age might be about twelve,--not more. Something
could be done for him,--something SHOULD be done for him before the
Cardinal parted with him. But this idea of "parting" was just what
seemed so difficult to contemplate! Puzzled beyond measure at the
strange state of mind in which he found himself, Felix Bonpre went
over and over again all the events of the day in order,--his arrival
in Rouen,--his visit to the Cathedral, and the grand music he had
heard or fancied he heard there,--his experience with the sceptical
little Patoux children and their mother,--his conversation with the
Archbishop, in which he had felt much more excitement than he was
willing to admit,--his dream wherein he had been so painfully
impressed with a sense of the desertion, emptiness, and end of the
world, and finally his discovery of the little lonely and apparently
forsaken boy, thrown despairingly as it were against the closed
Cathedral, like a frail human wreck cast up from the gulf of the
devouring sea. Each incident, trivial in itself, yet seemed of
particular importance, though he could not explain or analyse why it
should be so. Meditatively he sat and watched the moon sink like a
silver bubble falling downward in the dark,--the stars vanished one
by one,--and a faint brown-gold line of suggestive light in the east
began the slow creation of a yet invisible dawn. Presently, yielding
to a vague impulse of inexplicable tenderness, he rose softly and
went to the threshold of the room where his foundling slept. Holding
his breath, he listened--but there was no sound. Very cautiously and
noiselessly he opened the door, and looked in,--a delicate half-
light came through the latticed window and seemed to concentrate
itself on the bed where the tired wanderer lay. His fine youthful
profile was distinctly outlined,--the soft bright hair clustered
like a halo round his broad brows,--and the two small hands were
crossed upon his breast, while in his sleep he smiled. Always
touched by the beauty, innocence and helplessness of childhood,
something in the aspect of this little lad moved the venerable
prelate's heart to an unwonted emotion,--and looking upon him, he
prayed for guidance as to what he should best do to rescue so gentle
and young a creature from the cruelties of the world.

V.

"He has trusted me," said the Cardinal,--"I have found him, and I
cannot--dare not--forsake him. For the Master says 'Whosoever shall
receive one such little child in My name receiveth Me'."

The next morning broke fair and calm, and as soon as the Patoux
household were astir, Cardinal Bonpre sought Madame Patoux in her
kitchen, and related to her the story of his night's adventure. She
listened deferentially, but could not refrain from occasional
exclamations of surprise, mingled with suggestions of warning.

"It is like your good heart, Monseigneur," she said, "to give your
own bed to a stray child out of the street,--one, too, of whom you
know nothing,--but alas! how often such goodness is repaid by
ingratitude! The more charity you show the less thanks you receive,-
-yes, indeed, it is often so!--and it seems as if the Evil One were
in it! For look you, I myself have never done a kindness yet without
getting a cruelty in exchange for it."

"That is a sad experience, my daughter," returned the Cardinal
smiling,--"Nevertheless, it is our duty to go on doing kindnesses,
no matter what the results to ourselves may be. It is understood--is
it not? that we are to be misjudged in this world. If we had nothing
to suffer, what would be the use of exercising such virtues as
patience and endurance?"

"Ah, Monseigneur, for you it is different," said Madame Patoux
shaking her head and sighing--"You are like the blessed saints--safe
in a niche of Holy Church, with Our Lady for ever looking after you.
But for poor people such as we are--we see the rough side of life,
Monseigneur--and we know that there is very little goodness about in
the world,--and as for patience and endurance!--why, no one in these
days has the patience to endure even the least contradiction! Two
men,--aye even brothers,--will fight for a word like mongrels
quarrelling over a bone;--and two women will scream themselves
hoarse if one should have a lover more than the other--asking your
pardon, Monseigneur, for such wicked talk! Still, wicked as it may
be, it is true--and not all the powers of Heaven seem to care about
making things better. And for this boy,--believe me,--you had better
leave him to his own way--for there will be no chance of getting
such a poor little waif into the school unless his father and mother
are known, or unless someone will adopt him, which is not likely . . .
for Rouen is full of misery, and there are enough mouths to feed in
most families--and . . . mon Dieu!--is that the child?"

Thus abruptly she broke off her speech, utterly taken aback as she
suddenly perceived the little Manuel standing before her. Poorly
clad in the roughest garments as he was, his grace and plaintive
beauty moved her heart to quick compassion for his loneliness as he
came towards the Cardinal, who, extending one hand, drew him gently
to his side and asked if he had slept well?