No! Anthime would not elude his duty. But he could not help fearing its consequences. He had heavy pecuniary interests in Egypt which, as we have seen, were in the hands of the freemasons. What could he do without the help of the Lodge? And how could he hope to be assisted by the very institution he was flouting? Formerly he had expected fortune at their hands, and now he saw himself absolutely ruined.
He confided as much to Father Anselm, and Father Anselm, who had not been aware of Anthime’s high rank as a freemason, rejoiced at the thought that his recantation would be all the more striking. Two days later Anthime’s high rank was no longer a secret for any of the readers of the Osservatore and the Santa Croce.
“You are ruining me,” said Anthime.
“On the contrary, my son,” answered Father Anselm, “we are bringing you salvation. As for your material needs, take no thought for them. The Church will provide. I have dwelt at length upon your case to Cardinal Pazzi, who is going to speak to Rampolla about it. I may tell you, moreover, that the Holy Father himself is informed of your recantation. The Church understands what you have sacrificed for her sake, and will undertake that you do not suffer. Don’t you think, though, that upon this occasion you have over-estimated” (and he smiled) “the value of the freemasons’ influence? Not but what I know well enough that they must be reckoned with only too seriously. Never mind! Have you calculated the amount that their hostility may cost you? Tell it me roughly” (he raised his left forefinger to his nose with good-humoured slyness) “and fear nothing.”
Ten days after the celebration of the Jubilee, Anthime’s recantation took place in the Gesù, attended by every circumstance of excessive pomp. It is not for me to relate this ceremony, which was described in all the Italian papers of the time. Father T., the Jesuit General’s socius, pronounced one of his most remarkable orations on this occasion. “The freemason’s sick and tormented soul had doubtless come near to madness and the very extremity of his hatred had foreboded the coming of Love.” The preacher recalled Saul of Tarsus and pointed out that Anthime’s act of iconoclasm showed a surprising analogy to the stoning of St. Stephen. The reverend father’s eloquence swelled and rolled through the aisle, as the thronging surges of the tide roll through the vaults of some sounding cavern, and Anthime thought the while of his niece’s childish treble, and in his secret heart he thanked her for having called down upon her infidel uncle’s sins the merciful attention of her whom henceforth he would serve alone.
From that day onwards, Anthime, absorbed by more elevated preoccupations, scarcely noticed the noise that was made about his name. Julius de Baraglioul suffered in his stead and never opened a paper without a beating heart. The first enthusiasm of the orthodox press was answered by the vituperation of the liberal organs. An important article in the Osservatore—“A New Victory for the Church”—was met by a diatribe in the Tempo Felice—“Another Fool.” Finally the Dépeche de Toulouse headed Anthime’s usual page, which he had sent in the day before his cure, with a few gibing introductory remarks. Julius, in his brother-in-law’s name, wrote a short, dignified letter in reply, to inform the Dépeche that it need no longer consider “the convert” as one of its contributors. The Zukunft was beforehand with Anthime and politely thanked him for his services, intimating that there would be no further use for them. He accepted these blows with that serenity of countenance which is the mark of the truly devout soul.
“Fortunately the columns of the Correspondant will be open to you,” snarled Julius.
“But, my dear fellow, what in the world could I write in them?” objected Anthime benevolently. “None of my former occupations has any further interest for me.”
Then silence closed down over the affair. Julius had been obliged to return to Paris.
Anthime, in the meanwhile, pressed by Father Anselm, had obediently quitted Rome. The withdrawal of the Lodge’s assistance had been rapidly followed by the ruin of his worldly fortunes; and the applications which Veronica, confident of the Church’s support, had urged him to make, merely resulted in wearing out the patience of the influential members of the clergy and finally in setting them against him. He was advised in a friendly way to go to Milan. There he was to await the long-since promised compensation and any scraps which might fall from a celestial bounty that had grown in the meantime singularly lukewarm.