The Vatican swindle

by André Gide

I

The Countess Guy de Saint-Prix, Julius’s younger sister, who had been suddenly summoned to Paris by Count Juste-Agénor’s death, had not long since returned to Pezac (an elegant country residence, four miles out of Pau, which she had scarcely ever left since her widowhood, and to which she had become more than ever attached now that her children were all married and settled), when she received a singular visit.

She had just come in from her drive (she was in the habit of going out every morning in a light dog-cart which she drove herself), when she was informed that there was a priest in the drawing-room who had been waiting for over an hour to see her. The stranger came with an introduction from Cardinal André, as was shown by the card which was handed to the Countess; the card was in an envelope; under the Cardinal’s name, in his fine and almost feminine handwriting, were written the following words:

“Recommends Father J. P. Salus, canon of Virmontal, to the Countess de Saint-Prix’s very particular attention.”

That was all—and it was enough. The Countess was always glad to receive members of the clergy; Cardinal André, moreover, held the Countess’s soul in the hollow of his hand. Without a second’s delay, she hurried to the drawing-room and excused herself for having kept the visitor waiting.

The canon of Virmontal was a fine figure of a man. His noble countenance shone with a manly energy which conflicted strangely with the hesitating caution of his voice and gestures; and in like manner his hair, which was almost white, formed a surprising contrast to the bright and youthful freshness of his complexion.

Notwithstanding the Countess’s affability, the conversation at the outset was laborious, lagging, in conventional phrases, round about the lady’s recent bereavement, Cardinal André’s health and Julius’s renewed failure to enter the Academy. All this while the Abbé’s utterance was becoming slower and more muffled and the expression of his countenance more and more harrowing. At last he rose, but instead of taking leave:

“Madame la comtesse,” he said, “I should like to speak to you—on behalf of the Cardinal—about an important matter. But our voices sound very loud in this room and the number of doors alarms me; I am afraid of being overheard.”

The Countess adored confidences and mysteries; she showed the canon into a small boudoir, which could be entered only from the drawing-room, and shut the door.

“We are alone here,” she said. “Speak freely.”

But instead of speaking, the abbé, who had seated himself on an arm-chair opposite the Countess, pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, sobbing convulsively. The Countess, in some perplexity, stretched out her hand for her work basket, which was standing on a small table beside her, took out a bottle of salts, hesitated whether she should offer them to the abbé, and finally solved the difficulty by smelling them herself.

“Forgive me,” said the abbé at last, disinterring an apoplectic face from his handkerchief. “I know you are too good a Catholic, Madame la comtesse, not to understand and share my emotion, when you hear....”

The Countess could not abide lack of control; her propriety took refuge behind a lorgnette. The abbé quickly recovered himself and, drawing his chair nearer:

“It required the Cardinal’s solemn assurance, Madame la comtesse, before I could bring myself to come and see you—his assurance that your faith was something more than worldly conventionality—not a mere cloak for indifference.”

“Let’s get to the point, Monsieur l’abbé.”

“The Cardinal assured me, then, that I might have perfect confidence in your discretion—the discretion of the confessional, if I may say so....”

“Excuse me, Monsieur l’abbé, but if the secret is one with which the Cardinal is acquainted—a secret of such importance—how is it that he has not told me of it himself?”

The abbé’s smile alone would have sufficed to show the Countess the futility of her question.

“In a letter! But, my dear Madam, the post nowadays opens all cardinals’ letters.”

“He might have confided one to you.”

“Yes, Madam, but who knows what may happen to a paper, with the surveillance to which we are subjected? More than that—the Cardinal prefers to ignore what I am about to tell you—to have nothing to do with it.... Ah! Madam, at the last moment my courage fails me and I can hardly....”

“Monsieur l’abbé, as you are a stranger to me; I cannot feel offended that your confidence in me is no greater,” said the Countess very gently, turning her head aside and letting her lorgnette fall. “I have the utmost respect for the secrets which are confided to me. God knows I have never betrayed the smallest. But I have never been a person to solicit confidences.”

She made a slight movement as though to rise; the abbé stretched out his hand toward her.

“You will excuse me, Madame la comtesse, when you condescend to reflect that you are the first woman to have been judged worthy by the persons who have entrusted me with the fearful task of enlightening you—the first, I say, worthy to hear and keep this secret. I am alarmed, I confess, when I consider that this revelation is of a nature to weigh heavily—crushingly—on a woman’s intelligence.”

“There are very mistaken opinions held about the feebleness of women’s intelligence,” said the Countess almost dryly; then, with her hands slightly raised, she sat concealing her curiosity beneath an air which was a mixture of absent-mindedness, resignation and ecstatic vagueness—an air which she thought would be appropriate for receiving an important and confidential communication from the Church. The abbé drew his chair still nearer.

But the secret which Father Salus prepared to confide to the Countess seems to me even now so disconcertingly peculiar that I cannot venture to relate it without further precautions.

Fiction there is—and history. Certain critics of no little discernment have considered that fiction is history which might have taken place, and history fiction which has taken place. We are, indeed, forced to acknowledge that the novelist’s art often compels belief, just as reality sometimes defies it. Alas! there exists an order of minds so sceptical that they deny the possibility of any fact as soon as it diverges from the commonplace. It is not for them that I write.

Whether the representative of God upon earth was actually snatched from the Holy See and by the machinations of the Quirinal stolen, so to speak, from the whole body of Christendom, is an exceedingly thorny problem, and one which I have not the temerity to raise here. But it is an historical fact that towards the end of the year 1893 a rumour to that effect was in circulation. Certain newspapers mentioned it timidly; they were silenced. A pamphlet on the subject appeared at St. Malo[D] and was suppressed. For, on the one hand, the freemasons were as little anxious that the report of such an abominable outrage should be spread abroad, as, on the other, the Catholic leaders were afraid to support—or could not resign themselves to countenance—the extraordinary collections which were immediately started in this connection. There is no doubt that innumerable pious souls bled themselves freely (the sums which were collected—or dispersed—on this occasion are reckoned at close upon half a million francs), but what remained doubtful was whether all those who received the funds were really the devout persons they pretended to be, or whether some of them were not mere swindlers. At any rate, for the successful accomplishment of this scheme there was necessary, in the absence of religious conviction, an audacity, a skilfulness, a tact, an eloquence, a knowledge of facts and characters, a vigour of constitution, such as fall to the lot of few only in this world—strapping fellows, like Protos, for instance, Lafcadio’s old school-mate. I honestly warn the reader that it is he I am now introducing, under the appearance and borrowed name of the canon of Virmontal.

The Countess, firmly determined neither to open her lips nor change her attitude, nor even her expression, before getting to the very roots of the secret, listened imperturbably to the bogus priest, whose assurance was gradually becoming more and more confident. He had risen and begun striding up and down. To make his explanations clearer, he traced the affair back—not exactly to its sources (since the conflict between the Church and the Lodge—inherent in their very essence—may be said to date from all time) but to certain incidents in which their hostility had openly declared itself. He first of all begged the Countess to remember that in December,’92, the Pope had published two letters, addressed, one to the Italian people, and the other more particularly to the bishops, warning Catholics against the machinations of the freemasons; then, as the Countess’s memory failed her, he was obliged to go further back and recall the erection of Giordano Bruno’s statue, which had been planned and presided over by Crispi, behind whom the Lodge had still then concealed itself. He told of Crispi’s fury that the Pope should have repulsed his advances, should have refused to negotiate with him—and in this instance, what could negotiation mean but submission? He traced the history of that tragic day and told how the two camps had taken up their positions: how the freemasons had at last lifted their mask, and—while the whole diplomatic corps accredited to the Holy See were calling at the Vatican and thus showing their contempt for Crispi and their veneration for the Holy Father in his grievous affliction—how the Lodge, flags flying and bands playing, had acclaimed the illustrious blasphemer in the Campo dei Fiori, on the spot where the insulting and idolatrous effigy had been raised.

“In the consistory which followed shortly after, on June 30, 1889,” he continued (he was still standing, leaning now across the table, his arms in front of him, his face bent down towards the Countess), “Leo XIII gave vent to his vehement indignation. His protestations were heard by the entire universe, and all Christendom shuddered to hear him speak of leaving Rome! Leaving Rome! Those were my words!... All this, Madame la Comtesse, you know already—you grieved for it—you remember it—as well as I.”

He again began his pacing to and fro.

“At last Crispi fell from power. Would the Church be able to breathe again? In December, 1892, you remember, the Pope wrote those two letters. Madam....”

He sat down again abruptly, drew his arm-chair nearer to the sofa, and, seizing the Countess’s arm:

“A month later the Pope was imprisoned!”

As the Countess remained obstinately impassive, the canon let go her arm and continued in a calmer tone:

“I shall not attempt, Madam, to arouse your pity for the sufferings of a captive. Women’s hearts are, I know, always moved by misfortune. It is to your intelligence that I appeal, Countess, and I beg you to consider the state of miserable confusion into which the disappearance of our spiritual leader plunged us Christians.”

A slight shade passed over the Countess’s pale brow.

“No Pope is a frightful thing, but—God save us—a false Pope is more frightful still. For the Lodge, in order to cover up its crime—nay, more, in the hopes of inducing the Church to compromise herself fatally—the Lodge, I say, has installed on the pontifical throne, in the place of Leo XIII, some cat’s-paw or other of the Quirinal’s, some vile impostor! And it is to him that we must pretend submission so as not to injure the real one—and oh! shame upon shame! it was to him that all Christendom bowed down at the Jubilee!”

At these words the handkerchief he was wringing in his hands tore across.

“The first act of the false Pope was that too famous encyclical—the encyclical to France—at the thought of which the heart of every Frenchman worthy of the name still bleeds. Yes, yes, Madam, I know how your great lady’s generous heart must have suffered at hearing Holy Church deny the holy cause of royalty, and the Vatican such is the fact—give its approval to the Republic. Alas! Be comforted, Madam! You were right in your amazement. Be comforted, Madame la Comtesse. But think of the sufferings of the Holy Father in his captivity at hearing the cat’s-paw—the impostor proclaim him a Republican!”

Then, flinging himself back with a laugh that was half a sob:

“And what did you think, Comtesse de Saint-Prix, what did you think, when as a corollary to that cruel encyclical our Holy Father granted an audience to the editor of the Petit Journal! You realize the impossibility of such a thing. Your generous heart has already cried aloud to you that it is false!”

“But,” exclaimed the Countess, no longer able to contain herself, “it must be cried aloud to the whole world!”

“No, Madam! It must be kept silent!” thundered the abbé, towering formidably above her. “It must first be kept silent; we must keep silent so as to be able to act.”

Then apologetically, with a voice turned suddenly piteous:

“You see I am speaking to you as if you were a man.”

“Quite right, Monsieur l’abbé. To act, you said. Quick! What have you decided on?”

“Ah! I knew I should find in you a noble, virile impatience, worthy the blood of the Baragliouls! But, alas! nothing is more dangerous in the present circumstances than untimely zeal. Certain of the elect, it is true, have been apprised of these abominable crimes, but it is indispensable, Madam, that we should be able to count on their absolute discretion, on their total and ungrudging obedience to the instructions which they will in due time receive. To act without us is to act against us. And in addition to the Church’s disapproval, which—God save us!—may even go so far as to entail excommunication, all private initiative will be met with the most explicit and categorical denials from our party. This is a crusade, Madame la comtesse, yes! but a secret crusade. Forgive me for insisting on this point, but I am specially commissioned by the Cardinal to impress it on you; it is his firm intention, moreover, to know absolutely nothing of what is going on, and if he is spoken to on the subject he will fail to understand a single word. The Cardinal will not have seen me; and if, later on, circumstances throw us together again, let it be thoroughly understood there too that you and I have never spoken to each other. Our Holy Father will recognise his true servants in good time.”

Somewhat disappointed, the Countess asked timidly:

“But then ...?”

“We are at work, Madame la comtesse, we are at work; have no fear. And I am even authorised to reveal to you a portion of our plan of campaign.”

He settled himself squarely in his arm-chair, well opposite the Countess, who was now leaning forward, her hands up to her face, her elbows on her knees, and her chin resting between her palms.

He began by saying that the Pope was probably not confined in the Vatican, but in the Castle of St. Angelo, which, as the Countess certainly knew, communicated with the Vatican by an underground passage; that doubtless it would not be very difficult to rescue him from this prison, were it not for the semi-superstitious fear that all his attendants had of the freemasons, though in their inmost hearts with and of the Church. The kidnapping of the Holy Father was an example which had struck terror into their souls. Not one of the attendants would agree to give his assistance until means had been afforded him to leave the country and live out of the persecutors’ reach. Important sums had been contributed for this purpose by a few persons of noteworthy piety and discretion. There remained but one single obstacle to overcome, but it was one which necessitated more than all the others put together. For this obstacle was a prince—Leo XIII’s jailer-in-chief.

“You remember, Madame la comtesse, the mystery which still shrouds the double death of the Archduke Rudolph, the Austrian Crown Prince, and of his young bride, Maria Wettsyera, Princess Grazioli’s niece, who was found in a dying condition beside him.... Suicide, it was said. But the pistol was put there merely as a blind to public opinion; the truth is they were both poisoned. A cousin of the Archduke’s—an Archduke himself—who, alas! was madly in love with Maria Wettsyera, had been unable to bear seeing her the bride of another.... After this abominable crime, Jean-Salvador de Lorraine, son of Marie-Antoinette, Grand-Duchess of Tuscany, left the court of his cousin, the Emperor Francis Joseph. Knowing that he was discovered at Vienna, he went to Rome to confess his guilt to the Pope—to throw himself at his feet—to implore his pardon. He obtained it. Monaco, however—Cardinal Monaco-la-Valette—alleging the necessity of penance, had him confined in the Castle of St. Angelo, where he has been languishing for the last three years.”

The canon delivered the whole of this speech in a voice that was perfectly level; at this point he paused for a moment; then, emphasising his words with a slight tap of his foot:

“This is the man,” he cried, “that Monaco has made jailer-in-chief to Leo XIII.”

“What, the Cardinal!” exclaimed the Countess. “Can a cardinal be a freemason?”

“Alas!” said the canon pensively, “the Church has suffered sad inroads from the Lodge. You can easily see, Madame la comtesse, that if the Church had defended herself better, none of this would have happened. The Lodge was enabled to seize the person of the Holy Father only through the connivance of a few highly placed accomplices.”

“But it’s appalling!”

“What more is there to tell you, Madame la comtesse? Jean-Salvador imagined he was the prisoner of the Church, when in reality he was the prisoner of the freemasons. He will not consent to work for the liberation of our Holy Father unless he is at the same time enabled to flee himself. And he can flee only to a very distant country, where there is no extradition. He demands two hundred thousand francs.”

Valentine de Saint-Prix had sunk back in her chair and let her arms drop beside her; at these words she flung her head back, uttered a feeble moan and lost consciousness. The canon darted forward.

“Courage, Madame la comtesse”—he patted her hands briskly—“it’s not so bad as all that, God save us!”—he put the smelling-salts to her nose. “A hundred and forty of the two hundred thousand have been subscribed already”—and as the Countess opened one eye: “The duchesse de Lectoure has not promised more than fifty; there remain sixty to be found.”

“You shall have them,” murmured the Countess, almost inaudibly.

“Countess, the Church never doubted you.”

He rose very gravely—almost solemnly—paused a moment, and then:

“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, I have the most absolute confidence in your generous promise; but reflect for a moment on the innumerable difficulties which will accompany, hamper, and possibly prevent the handing over of this sum; a sum, which as I told you, it will be your duty to forget ever having given me, which I myself must deny ever having received; for which I am not even permitted to give you a receipt.... The only prudent method is for you to hand it over to me personally. We are watched. My presence in your house may have been observed. Can we ever be sure of the servants? Think of the Comte de Baraglioul’s election! I must not be seen here again.”

But as after these words he stood rooted to the ground without stirring or speaking, the Countess understood.

“But, Monsieur l’abbé, it stands to reason I haven’t got such an enormous sum as that about me. And even....”

The abbé showed signs of impatience, so that she did not dare to add that she wanted time (for she had great hopes that she would not have to provide the whole sum herself).

“What is to be done?” she murmured.

Then, as the canon’s eyebrows grew more and more menacing:

“It’s true I have a few jewels upstairs....”

“Oh, fie! Madam! Jewels are keepsakes. Can you fancy me as a bagman? And do you suppose I can afford to arouse suspicion by trying to get a good price for them? Why, I should run the risk of compromising you and our undertaking into the bargain.”

His deep voice had grown harsh and violent. The Countess trembled slightly.

“Wait a minute, Monsieur le chanoine, I will go and see what I have got upstairs.”

She came down again in a moment or two, nervously crumpling a bundle of bank-notes in her hand.

“Fortunately I have just collected my rents. I can give you six thousand, five hundred francs at once.”

The canon shrugged his shoulders:

“What do you suppose I can do with that?”

And with an air of sorrowful contempt he loftily waved the Countess away.

“No, Madam, no! I will not take those notes. I will take them with the others or not at all. Only petty souls can consent to petty dealings. When can you give me the whole amount?”

“How much time can you let me have?... a week ...?” asked the Countess, who was thinking how she could make a collection.

“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, has the Church been deceived in you? A week! I will say but one word—the Pope is waiting.”

Then, raising his arms to Heaven:

“What! the incomparable honour of delivering him lies in your hands and you delay! Have a fear, Madam, have a fear that the Lord in the day of your own deliverance may keep your niggardly soul waiting and languishing in just such a manner outside the gates of Paradise!”

He became menacing—terrible; then, suddenly and swiftly raising the cross of a rosary to his lips, he absented himself in a rapid prayer.

“Surely there’s time for me to write to Paris?” moaned the Countess wildly.

“Telegraph! Tell your banker to deposit the sixty thousand francs at the Crédit Foncier in Paris and tell them to telegraph to the Crédit Foncier at Pau to remit the sum immediately. It’s rudimentary.”

“I have some money on deposit at Pau,” she stammered.

Then his indignation knew no bounds.

“Ah, Madam! All this beating about the bush before you tell me so? Is this your eagerness? What would you say now if I were to refuse your assistance?...”

Then pacing up and down the room, his hands crossed behind his back, and as though nothing she could say now could placate him:

“This is worse than lukewarmness,” and he made little clicks with his tongue to show his disgust, “this is almost duplicity.”

“Monsieur l’abbé, I implore you....”

For a few moments the abbé, with frowning brows, inflexibly continued his pacing. Then at last:

“You are acquainted, I know, with Father Boudin, with whom I am lunching this very morning—” (he pulled out his watch) “I shall be late. Make out a cheque in his name; he will be able to cash the sixty thousand at once and hand it over to me. When you see him again, just say that it was ‘for the expiatory chapel’; he is a man of discretion and tact—he will not insist further. Well! What are you waiting for?”

The Countess, prostrate on the sofa, rose, dragged herself towards a small bureau, which she opened, and took out from it an olive-green cheque-book, a leaf of which she filled in with her long pointed handwriting.

“Excuse me for having been a little severe with you just now, Madame la comtesse,” said the abbé in a softened voice as he took the cheque she held out to him, “but such interests are at stake!”

Then, slipping the cheque into an inner pocket:

“It would be impious to thank you, would it not?—even in the name of Him in whose hands I am but an unworthy instrument.”

He was overcome by a brief fit of sobbing, which he stifled in his handkerchief; but recovering himself in a moment, with a sharp stamp of his heel on the ground, he rapidly murmured a few words in a foreign language.

“Are you Italian?” asked the Countess.

“Spanish! The sincerity of my emotions betrays me.”

“Your accent doesn’t. Really your French is so perfect....”

“You are very kind, Madame la comtesse. Excuse me for leaving you a little abruptly. Now that we have come to an arrangement, I shall be able to get to Narbonne this very evening; the archbishop is expecting me there impatiently. Good-bye!”

He took both the Countess’s hands in his and, with his head thrown back, looked at her fixedly:

“Good-bye, Countess de Saint-Prix!” Then, with a finger on his lips:

“Remember that a word of yours may ruin everything.”

He had no sooner left the house than the Countess flew to the bell-pull.

“Amélie, tell Pierre that I shall want the barouche directly after lunch to drive into Pau. Oh, and wait a minute!... Tell Germain to get his bicycle at once and take a note to Madame Fleurissoire. I’ll write it now.”

And leaning on the bureau which she had not shut, she wrote as follows:

“Dear Madame Fleurissoire,

“I shall be coming to see you this afternoon. Please expect me at about two o’clock. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you. Will you arrange for us to be alone?”

She signed the note, then sealed the envelope and handed it to Amélie.