“‘Have you no fear?’
‘Of what? That heaven should fall?’
‘No; but that earth
Should arm in madness.’”
ABBÉS abounded in the society of old France. Intriguing abbés, stained with every vice, like Bernis; infidel abbés, like Raynal; witty, philosophic abbés, like Galiani, were specimens of the class, worthy the age in which it was seriously proposed to bestow a cardinal’s hat upon Voltaire. “But still they come, and still the cry is more.” There were abbés fierce and fanatical, abbés scientific and studious, abbés soberly and sincerely devout. And there was yet another kind of abbé, familiar to the caricaturists of the day, the penniless abbé, the rich man’s dependent and sycophant, often his maitre d’hotel, who might be seen standing napkin in hand, reviewing and drilling his long and useless train of pampered servants.
There was such a personage amongst the guests and habitués of the wealthy farmer-general. M. l’Abbé de Frontignac Arboissère claimed ancestry, and still boasted relatives, who would have consigned all M. Pelletier’s splendors to ineffable contempt with the single word “bourgeoise!” But Arboissère’s dissipations (even then considered outrageous) had robbed him of everything cave his noble name, and left him no choice except a permanent retreat with some religious order, or a rôle such as that he condescended to play in M. Pelletier’s household.
Gerard did not feel flattered by the discovery that he stood high in the favor of this anomalous personage. Having no desire for his friendship, he avoided him and repelled his advances, not without brusquerie. But in vain. The abbé not only gave out that he was his confidant, but determined really to be so. And at last one day he was fairly caught, caged in a summer house à la Grecque, under the shade of marble gods and goddesses, and bound with the fetters, at that time adamantine, of courtesy and politeness.
He had been enduring, or rather enjoying, what his gay intimates called “a retreat.” With full permission from Lis indulgent host, he had remained in the country for the winter, shut up in his own apartments, seeing no one, hearing nothing from the outer world, while in one long ecstasy of passion he obeyed the inspirations of his art. But the ecstasy was over now, and it had left him with a weary frame, with nerves unstrung, and with a temper even more than usually excitable and impressible.
“Monsieur takes an interest in all the questions of the day?” said the abbé, presenting his snuff box.
Gerard acknowledged that he did, but somewhat perversely remarked, that when last he visited Paris, the question of the day, par excellence, seemed to be who could show off Pantin to the best advantage.
Pantin was a ridiculous toy, a kind of dancing doll, which it was then fashionable even for the gravest personages to carry about to public places, and to exhibit in absurd and ludicrous attitudes. It was discussed for ten minutes by Gerard and the abbé with all the gravity such a theme demanded, then Arboissère returned to the charge. “Perhaps the, question of ‘La noblesse commercante’ has happened, amongst others, to engage the curiosity of monsieur?”
Gerard replied by a most expressive shrug of his shoulders―a gesture meant to intimate that such a question was beneath the contempt of a philosopher. This was the tone adopted by his clique; it was an easy way of manifesting their sentiments towards the “noblesse,” who had raised the discussion in order to effect a compromise between their pride and their avarice.
It really was a pity, Arboissère hinted, that social prejudices should debar “La noblesse de l’épée” from a career, for which the access their birth afforded them to the counsels of their sovereign gave them singular and splendid facilities. Prejudice was still strong, however. Therefore it was better―certainly better and more prudent―for a member of the high nobility, who wished to engage in a promising commercial speculation, to veil his personality behind some less illustrious name, and of course to share the profits largely with the working partner. Thus an intelligent man of the people, “roturier,” but still “bien gentil,” with a good address and personally acceptable to the nobility―was monsieur doing him the honor to follow him? might in a short time acquire a princely fortune.
There were vague rumors, not unknown to Gerard, that it was the fruits of some such secret partnership which had enabled M. de Voltaire to play the grand seigneur at Ferney; and to devote himself, with no care for immediate pecuniary profit, to the propagation of his cold and sterile faith.
With but little encouragement from Gerard, Arboissère proceeded to unfold his scheme. It appeared that a distant connection of his own, a man high in rank and office, needed such a partner, and had expressed his preference for a literary man or an artist, because it was the fashion for the noblesse to admit such to their intimacy, and therefore the necessary intercourse would excite neither remark nor suspicion. The high personage alluded to was privy to the king’s most secret, most confidential arrangements. He could even read the tables of the price of corn, which were brought every day into the “petits appartements.” And where his Majesty did a great deal of business on his own account, his Majesty’s agents might surely do a little on theirs.
Gerard’s answer was a bitter scoff about the kind of business with which, in those days, Majesty concerned itself. And into such an abyss of moral degradation had the “golden lilies” of France and the crown of St. Louis been dragged by their miserable wearer, that the abbé did not even pretend to affect surprise or disapproval. “I am not asking you to touch the mud, even with the ends of your fingers,” he answered. “Peste! I am a man of the world, and I am well aware I have the honor of addressing ‘un parfait honnête homme.’ I am merely intimating that a noble duke and peer, a member of his Majesty’s Council, wants just such a man to stand between him and the merchants, as the nominal purchaser of corn for their joint benefit.”
It did not occur to Gerard that the proposed traffic was no less than a partnership in robbery, and robbery of the meanest and most hateful kind. “He that withholdeth corn, the people shall curse him.” It only occurred to him that in a single year he might be a rich man, buy one of the numerous “Places” that conferred nobility upon their holders, and proudly ask the hand of Griselle from her father, whose ambition he well knew it had been to see his daughter married in his own class.
“It is the very great regard, the distinguished sentiments of admiration I entertain for monsieur, which have induced me to name the matter,” Arboissère continued. “Otherwise, I know scores of gentlemen who would consider such a hint the sweetest music they could dance to.”
“I thank you, M. l’Abbé,” Gerard said, offering his own snuff box, and rising to put an end to the interview. “But the matter requires consideration. We will discuss it another time, if you please.”
Arboissère suggested that they might resume the conversation at the same hour on the following day.
“Tomorrow then, monsieur, if you will,” said Gerard.
Arboissère agreed. “I am going to town this afternoon,” he remarked. “Yesterday, as I offered my respects at the château to Madame de Lioncourt, that altogether charming Mademoiselle Zélie did me the honor to request me to choose a lap dog for her. I need not say with what transports I obey,” he added, laying his hand on his heart. “Perhaps, however, I may owe the young lady’s kindness to the warm but well-merited praises I bestowed upon a certain Fantasia which I noticed lying open beside her spinet.”
Gerard acknowledged the compliment by a bow, but answered coldly enough, “I am glad to hear that your friends do me the honor to approve my compositions. All revoir, monsieur.” And so they parted.
Gerard did not waste one thought upon Zélie de Lioncourt. All his assumed coldness gone now, he walked towards his own apartments with a rapid step, his heart on fire with love and hope and bright anticipation.
He little guessed to what villainy he was asked to sell himself. Had he known what we know now, he would have chosen absolute starvation―ay, he would even have chosen never to look on the face of Griselle again―rather than have accepted the part M. l’Abbé d’Arboissère so obligingly chalked out for him. But the odious “Pacte de la Famine” was still a secret. How could Gerard imagine that the “first gentleman of France” was using the august privileges of royalty for the vile purpose of forcing up corn to starvation prices, that the trade rendered profitable by such forestalling might fill his purse, emptied by yet viler needs? Whilst millions were lavished on pleasures not to be named, famine after famine was sweeping over France with desolating fury. The people suffered and died, and the wail of their anguish never reached the throne of Louis; but it entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth, as Louis knew, years afterward, on his miserable, deserted deathbed.
Gerard’s moral organization was sensitive; an undefined foreboding―like the indescribable sensation that tells a man walking in darkness of something near which will hurt him―warned him that all was not right. His philosophic friends were teaching him to hate regal tyranny with a hatred growing stronger and fiercer every day. Between Paris and Versailles the feud was deadly. And did not the abbé’s proposition mean alliance with Versailles?―But then the philosophers were not usually scrupulous in their conduct. Had he asked counsel at their lips, he would probably have been told to hold his peace, make his fortune, and then consecrate his leisure to the service of letters and humanity. Many of the leaders of advanced thought, whilst echoing Diderot’s wish to strangle the last king with the entrails of the last priest, thankfully accepted everything king or priest had to give; nay, sued for place And pension to the vilest favorites of an abandoned monarch. Even the amiable Marmontel would only have laughed at Gerard’s scruples.
Absorbed in the effort to reason them down, he walked onwards, and by-and-by came unawares upon some of M. Pelletier’s guests, who, like himself, had remained for the winter in the country. They had been enjoying the early spring sunshine upon one of the terraces, and were now gathered in an eager group around a young man who was reading a letter aloud. Gerard would have turned away unperceived had not three words arrested him―uttered low, but with that deep, prolonged intonation of intense feeling to which the French tongue lends itself easily― “C’est une horreur!”
He stepped into the midst of the group, where all welcomed him with cordiality, from the precise, punctilious old marquis (some marquises honored farmers-general with their visits), who was sitting, cane in hand, on the sunniest seat of the terrace, to the fair young boy lying at his feet, whose exquisite voice, well trained by Gerard, had won his admission into that brilliant, but doubtful society.
When their compliments had been duly acknowledged and returned, Gerard asked,―
“What were you discussing, messieurs, when I had the honor to join you?”
“A letter from Toulouse. All is over now.”
“All over! What do you mean?”
“Surely you have not been so completely buried as to have heard nothing of the ‘affaire Calas?’”
“Oh yes, I heard of it. But I thought there was no doubt of the man’s acquittal. The accusation seemed incredible.”
“Still more incredible that in this year of grace 1762― because the people of Toulouse are fanatics and the magistrates fools―Jean Calas has been―broken alive upon the wheel.”
“Horrible!” cried Gerard.
“An unheard-of atrocity!” the young man continued. “Posterity will refuse to believe it.”
“How was it possible?” asked Gerard.
“To explain the possibility; I must go back to the beginning of the story. You will pardon me that, M. Gerard, since you seem to remember so little about it. Jean Calas, merchant of Toulouse, sixty-four years of age, is―or was―a very honest, worthy man, respected by every one, but he was a Protestant. He had three sons, the eldest ―a clever ambitious youth―hated the desk and the ledger, but found every other career closed to him, because he was too honest, or too proud, to obtain a ‘certificate of catholicity.’ He thought of becoming a preacher in his own sect, but that, as you are aware, is still a capital crime, for which one Pasteur Rochette was hanged only the other day. ‘It is a bad trade that leads to the gallows,’ said the friends of Marc Antoine Calas. So the young man remained at home in idleness, and grew moody, dejected, miserable. At last, on the evening of the 13th of October, he committed suicide, hanging himself in his father’s shop. The afflicted family would fain have hid their sorrow from the public eye. In vain; their confusion and horror, their cries and sobs, betrayed all, and the mob forced its way into the house of mourning. An unknown voice cried aloud that Marc Antoine Calas had been about to become a Catholic; and the rumor passed from lip to lip. Two of the capitouls were present; one of them treated this folly with the scorn it merited; the other―the too-famous capitoul David―took it up eagerly, and ordered an investigation. But from that time forth all investigation was mockery. The idea seized upon the mob that the unhappy young man was a martyr to the Catholic faith, put to death by his father, with the consent of the family. No jot or tittle of evidence was adduced in support of the absurd accusation. But arouse the fanaticism of an ignorant mob, and you fling a match into a powder magazine. Marc Antoine Calas was buried as a martyr, with tapers, wreaths, and requiems; while the unfortunate family were thrown into a dungeon, and indicted for parricide. The father and mother, a son and two daughters, their servant, and a young lad named Lavaysse who was supping with them on the fatal night, were all dragged together into this abyss of misery.”
“Where was law? Where was justice?” Gerard asked with rapidly-changing color. He looked greatly agitated―more so than even the honor of the story could account for.
His informant answered sadly, “The ministers of law and the guardians of justice sided with the mob; only one or two saving themselves from the execration of posterity by protesting. The capitoul David acted throughout a part worthy of St. Dominic; still, as every unprejudiced man thought the indictment a tissue of improbabilities, the process dragged. And Jean Calas, called suddenly from desk and ledger to contend with worse than wild beasts, defended himself with a calmness, a dignity, an intrepidity truly amazing.
“Only once was he unworthy of himself. A Protestant minister, Paul Rabaut of Nismes, wrote a pamphlet in his defense. As might have been expected, such advocacy was worse than useless. Rabaut’s pamphlet was burned by the public executioner; and Calas, who saw the flames on his way to the place of trial, lost courage, grew confused, and gave his enemies an advantage they failed not to use. But why recall the variations of fortune, the alternations of hope and fear? All has ended―as you have heard.”
“Read the letter for M. Gerard,” said one of the bystanders.
“Nay, spare me that. M. Gerard knows the meaning of words. The sentence was― ‘The torture, ordinary and extraordinary, and to be broken alive on the wheel.’”
Gerard shuddered. This was what men were doing while he sat apart, wrapped in his delicious dream of melody.
“No drop in the cup of bitterness was spared the victim,” the young man continued, not without emotion. “At last ―on the wheel―two long hours― But a courage and fortitude well-nigh incredible upheld him throughout; and even, strange as this may seem, prevailed to tum the fide of popular feeling. The hoary head, the serene and noble bearing, the silent endurance, the calm, reiterated assurance ‘I die innocent,’ touched the hearts of all. In his agony he Fayed, but uttered no complaint. He pardoned and excused his judges, repeating, ‘They have been misled, without doubt, they have been misled by false witnesses.’ And he spent his last breath in pleading for his young guest, that poor child ‘Lavaysse. So, in early ages, died the martyrs of our faith,’ was the witness of the priests who attended him.”
“Tell what he said, monsieur,” said the boy, lifting up a tear-stained face.
“He said, ‘I die innocent. Jesus Christ, who was innocence itself, willed to die in anguish yet more cruel.’”
At the Name, thus uttered, the old marquis uncovered and bowed his head, and others, little used to reverence, did the same. There was a solemn silence, and all started when it was broken by a wail from the boy’s young lips―
“And oh, messieurs, you tell me there is no God to take pity and to do justice!”
“Humanity is taking pity; Humanity will do justice. Its great heart is stirred at last.” So someone said, not Gerard.
“What good will Humanity do Calas, if there is no Christ?” the boy persisted. “What good will it do Calas’ wife and children if they never see him again―never know that all is made up to him?”
“Chut! quel enfant terrible! What can a child know about these things?” said one of the elders; and the boy, thus repressed, stole away, weeping silently.
“There is one at least whose heart is stirred to its depths,” observed the marquis. “The old lion of Ferney is aroused at last. And his roar will make the capitouls of Toulouse tremble in their robes of office.”
“Yes,” another added. “Baron Grimm has had a letter from Ferney, in answer to a request for a promised tragedy. ‘No tragedy from me,’ says Voltaire, ‘until the tragedy of Toulouse is finished’”
“There’s more of the poet heart in that word than in many a tragedy,” Gerard said; and then he also quitted the group, perhaps unwilling to betray the extent to which the story moved him.
And here let us pay the tribute justly due to Arouet de Voltaire. His was no pity idly evaporating in words. From that hour he spared neither gold, nor time, nor personal exertion, until―mainly through his unceasing efforts―three years afterward the memory of Calas was “rehabilitated,” his sentence reversed, and his property restored to his family. Alas! that Voltaire never knew―that he would not know―Him to whom he ministered thus in His suffering members! But if a feeling, not all ungentle, rises in our hearts towards one whose words and works unquestionably wrought much evil, it is because―and not on this occasion only―Voltaire showed himself neighbor to him that fell among thieves. Long had the Huguenot lain by the wayside wounded and half dead, while priest and Levite not only passed by on the other side, but acted the robbers’ part themselves―it was this Samaritan who showed mercy on him. Years afterward, in Voltaire’s own day of triumph―when the world-famous philosopher and author was for an hour the idol of Paris―he overheard some stranger ask the question, “For whom is it the crowd are shouting thus?” “Oh, it is for the deliverer of the Calas!” answered the person addressed, a poor woman. And Voltaire acknowledged that the sweetest moment of his triumph.
As for Calas―bitter though the cup of anguish he had to drink undoubtedly was―could he have foreseen the use God would make of that anguish, he might have gladly embraced the cross. The severe communion to which he belonged scarcely grants him the honored name of martyr. Yet ten thousand of her martyrs suffered and bled without accomplishing what was given him to do. For nearly a hundred years had the Protestants of France groaned beneath a horrible tyranny. They died on the rack, the wheel, the gibbet; in galleys, in dungeons, in convents; or brokenhearted for their children who “were not” ―and no man pitied them. But at the wrongs of Calas a cry arose that “rang from sea to sea.” The great, the wise, the mighty of earth, took up the cause of the persecuted community. Partly through their exertions, partly through the progress of intelligence and humanity, martyrdoms became thenceforth impossible. Pasteur Rochette, the three Greniers, and a month later Jean Calas, were “the last drops of a thunder shower.” After that the sky grew clear.
God was judging between the Church of France that was in king’s palaces, gorgeously appareled and living delicately, and the Church of France that dwelt solitary in the Desert, and drank the dregs of the cup of trembling. And already His sentence had gone forth. “Thus saith thy Lord, the Eternal, and thy God that pleadeth the cause of His people, Behold, I have taken out of thy hand the cup of trembling, even the dregs of the cup of my fury; thou shalt no more drink it again; but I will put it into the hands of them that afflict thee, which have said to thy soul, Bow down, that we may go over; and thou hast laid thy body as the ground, and as the street to them that went over.”
Yet in the Church that persecuted, He also had his hidden ones. He knew them throughout all; and men learned to know them in the stormy days of the Revolution, when the cup of trembling was indeed borne to their lips. And they, too, like their brethren in the Desert, took it meekly and bravely, only seeing Him whose pierced hand gave it, only saying, as He did once, “Thy will be done.”