“I had rather be a priest than do so base a thing.”
Old Provençal Proverb.
“HERE, Griselle,” said M. Bairdon one evening, as he returned rather earlier than usual from the Café des Étrangers, “here is today’s Mercure.”
Griselle took the paper (always interesting to the household because edited by Gerard’s friend, Marmontel), and was soon arrested by an ode on the devotion of D’Assas. “M. Prosper’s poem, which M. Gerard read to us the other night,” she thought. “No doubt he has persuaded M. Marmontel to print it. So like him―always generous and helpful.”
Bairdon, meanwhile, was busy studying a handbill which set forth the times and places of the starting of diligences; when Gustave, who sat in the room reading as usual, looked up suddenly and addressed him.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I wish, if you have no objection, to become a priest.”
“A priest!” Bairdon repeated, in his amazement allowing the paper to fall from his hand. “What is the meaning of this whim? I thought you were a philosopher, and prided yourself on your freedom from vulgar prejudices, and so forth. Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all, monsieur. I should not presume so far. I wish to enter the Church.” Gustave’s tone was perfectly cool and polite, almost condescending. Truly was it said of that age, “Respect is no more.”
“What is the meaning of all this? Have you gone to hear one of M. Bridaine’s wonderful sermons, and been converted, as the phrase runs? That were good news indeed. Only with you no conversion would last a month,” said Bairdon contemptuously.
“My present purpose will last long enough, as you shall see, monsieur.”
“But why become a priest?” Bairdon asked with scornful emphasis upon the word. He reverenced the Catholic Church more sincerely than most of his contemporaries, but he neither respected nor liked the Catholic priesthood.
“Why do you go into the next room when you see breakfast laid there? I see cakes and café all lait― ay, and dessert and wine too, laid for me upon the abundant tables of Holy Church.”
“Oh! that is the reason, is it? Then, of course, you have learned to believe the dogmas of Holy Church?”
“Oh yes; quite as devoutly as any of her servants, higher in education and position than a village curé, or perhaps, than my honest godfather the officiating deacon.”
“You are an impertinent boy!” said Bairdon angrily. “But end this folly, and say in plain words what has put the Church into your head.”
“I have been thinking for some time that I ought to look to my future, and make choice of a profession; and now, indeed, I must. Have you not heard that there is an ‘Édit du Roi’ out today closing the doors of the College of Louis le Grand? Those poor wretches of Jesuits have succeeded at last, by dint of cleverness and good management, in making France too hot for them, and may be considered fairly ‘hors de combat.’ That does not matter to me. I have learned all they can teach me―with a good deal more that they will never know.”
“True knowledge is humble, childish ignorance proud and boastful,” said Bairdon, severely.
“About a fortnight ago,” Gustave continued, not heeding the rebuke, “I addressed some very neat congratulatory verses, in Latin, to M. le Cardinal Bemis.”
“What!―to Bernis!!” Bairdon in his indignation almost started from his seat.
Gustave, though rather taken by surprise, went on coolly, “He received them with all favor, sent me a message inviting me to wait upon him, and offered, if I would enter the Church, to procure me a fat benefice.”
“Wait upon Bernis!” cried the angry Scotchman. “That vile, cringing sycophant! That favorite of King’s favorites―more shameless, more abandoned than they! That wretch, creeping into power by back stairs and ladias’ antechambers, and covering the rags of his infamy with the purple of God’s Church! A son of mine―a Bairdon of Glenmair―approaching him with lying flatteries, crouching at his feet and saying, ‘Put me, I pray thee, into one of the priest’s offices, that I may eat a piece of bread!’ Never―never, Gustave!”
The Mercure was laid down long ago; and Griselle, pale and anxious, looked from father to son.
“If I want to climb, I must step on whatever happens to lie in my way,” Gustave said, doggedly.
“No Bairdon shall step in the mire while God’s law and man’s give me power to prevent it,” Bairdon answered. He continued, a little more mildly, “If your philosophies and fine-spun absurdities have left you any conscience at all, just ask yourself what you mean.”
“I mean to grow rich,” said the unabashed Gustave.
“By asking an abandoned profligate to have you well paid for teaching―or pretending to teach―doctrines you do not believe, and administering sacraments you think no better than juggling tricks!”
“Granted,” Gustave answered quietly; “I am no worse than cardinals, archbishops, bishops, abbés, priors. Which of them all believes that God is in their hands when they consecrate the host, or in the sky above them when they say their prayers?”
“Hold thy peace, boy! Not another word either of Bemis or of the priesthood, or else―”
“Or else, what?” Gustave asked, coolly still, though he grew rather pale.
Bairdon’s brow darkened ominously. “In my country,” he began, with an expressive glance at his gold-headed sane; but, arrested by the pleading look in Griselle’s soft blue eyes, he paused, then resumed more gently― “in my country men knew how to rule and discipline their own households in the fear of God. Here, it seems, it is the fashion to buy a lettre de cachet, and send a disobedient son or a froward page―to St. Lazare.”
The threat was terrible. From the thought of a retreat at St. Lazare, under the control of monks whose ideas of discipline were said to be at once cruel and degrading, even Gustave shrank appalled. But presently recovering himself, he muttered between his set teeth, “You shall never send me to St. Lazare.”
“I hope I need not,” said Bairdon, leaving the room.
Gustave sat still, moving neither hand nor foot. So did Griselle. At last she said softly, “Brother.” He did not seem to hear. She rose and laid her hand gently on his arm, but he shook it rudely off. Then, as if repenting, he said, “Never mind, Griselle. I know how to help myself.”
“If you do right, God will help you. Take heart, brother! You will be a famous advocate one day, perhaps a judge, or a President of the Parliament, maintaining its ancient privileges against the king himself, with all the world looking on.”
Gustave’s hard, set face softened. “You have faith in me,” he said.
“Why not, brother? But, oh! if you only had faith in the good God!”
The appeal was not well-timed. Gustave was irritated, and revenged himself by a taunt that crimsoned Griselle’s fair cheek and brow. “Why don’t you distress yourself about M. Gerard?” he asked. “He believes as little as I.” Then, after a pause, and with bitterness, “I suppose you think faith is only good for women and children.”
Without waiting for Griselle’s answer he went out, taking the Mercure in his hand.
“Griselle,” said Madame Bairdon, as they sat working together after supper, “I am distressed about my poor Gustave. Thy father is somewhat hard on him. He forgets that he is still a child, though so learned and clever, and all the more a child in some things because he is quite a prodigy in others.”
“My father’s love for all that is true, honest, and good is so strong, that he finds it hard to bear with evil,” Griselle said with pride.
“Ah, well! one must take things as they come in this world,” said Madame Bairdon with a sigh. She had no wish to imitate her husband’s severer virtue, but she admired it, and enjoyed the dignity it reflected upon her. “Griselle, ma fille,” she resumed, “I am distressed no less for thy father himself. I have many an anxious thought about him, though one must needs be cautious in speaking these days.”
Griselle’s color changed, and she asked, in a trembling voice, “What can you mean, madame?”
“Nothing particular; nothing to put in plain Words, perhaps. But have you not observed a change in him of late?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Griselle, brightening, “I have seen change in him, but to me it seems a happy one. He is more cheerful, more buoyant, more full of energy than I ever remember him.”
“The old story!” Madame Bairdon sighed, as her needle flashed rapidly through the lace she was mending. “The old story, child! Everything looks bright to thee, ma fille, so long as M. Gerard is in and out, with his pleasant talk and cheerful ways for all, and his soft words for one. I do not blame thee―not I. Thy father loves him well, and so do I. I own I could have wished he was something besides a musician. These artists are apt to be dreamy and fitful; one can’t depend upon them. But no doubt M. Gerard’s fine friends will get him a place, and then all will be right. However, let us return to thy father, Griselle. Certainly he is more cheerful than he used to be; but this cheerfulness, whence comes it? He haunts the Café des Étrangers more than ever, and I only half like the acquaintances he meets there. I fear more letters pass between some of those Scotch and English gentlemen and their friends on the other side of the Channel―Jacobites, as they call them―than Government would exactly approve. People ought to be cautious what they send through the post, considering the postmaster’s habit of rifling the mails, and carrying their contents to Versailles for the King’s amusement. I confess I think that somewhat hard, Griselle. Suppose Gustave is obliged to make a retreat at St. Lazare, and I write and tell my cousins at Dijon, is that any reason our little troubles must be laughed at over the royal chocolate in the ‘petits appartements?’ ―But, hush! Here comes M. Gerard.”
Gerard came in gaily, with a cheerful face and elastic step.
“Monsieur always looks as if he had just heard good news,” said Madame Bairdon.
“So I have, madame, on this occasion,” Gerard answered, with a glance at Griselle. “Not that the rose is without a thorn, however. You know M. Pelletier, the wealthy farmer-general?”
“I sold madame the lace for her trousseau,” said Madame Bairdon. “A better bargain she had in it than he has in her.”
“No doubt,” said Gerard. “It was M. de Choiseul who forced him to marry her, or lose his place. Where will end that vexatious interference of Government in everybody’s private affaire? But whatever M. Pelletier’s domestic troubles may be, his wealth is boundless, and so is his munificence. He has planned some fêtes, or spectacles, to be given at his mansion in the Place de Louis le Grand, and he intends them to eclipse everything of the kind hitherto offered to our fastidious Parisians. He has asked me to become his guest, and to superintend the musical department. And so―” He ended with a sigh.
“And so, M. Gerard, your fortune is made,” Madame Bairdon said cheerfully.
But Gerard was not looking at her. “And so,” he resumed, a little sadly, “I shall be obliged to change my quarters―for a time. I do not say with what reluctance.”
“The house will be quite desolate without you, M. Gerard,” Madame Bairdon answered warmly. “But in losing the good lodger, I presume to hope we shall not lose the valued friend.”
“Madame, the friend is yours as ever, and forever,” said Gerard, kissing her hand with graceful courtesy.
“Will monsieur do us the honor to sup with us this evening?” she asked.
“Most willingly and gratefully. I shall be glad of the opportunity of paying my respects to M. Bairdon.”
The evening was a pleasant and not quite an uneventful one. Since the day of Griselle’s fête Gerard’s position towards her had been understood by all, but he took this opportunity of making the formal appeal to her father that custom demanded; and Bairdon, while counseling prudence and patience, did not withhold his approbation.
Griselle sat long at her chamber window that night “How hot it is!” she murmured. “The air feels heavy, weighted with something that is coming. Perhaps thunder is at hand.” So much was spoken half aloud, but there was an undercurrent of silent thought. “We have been so happy together! It was too good to last. God knows whether M. Pelletier’s gold is cleaner than M. Bernis’s patronage. This is got by flattering princes―that, I fear, by starving peasants. Can a blessing come with either? How restless every one seems! My father, Gustave, and now―Désiré. Is something strange indeed going to happen, or is it but my own foolish fancy?”