“I do not wish to shock you—you who are so good and true, and who hold so high a position in the church: but I will not deceive you, nor will I play the hypocrite even to gain your better opinion of me. I will be plain and honest from the first; and, therefore, I tell you, I do not believe there is a God.”
The bishop did not withdraw his arm, nor start with horror, nor call him a fool (though he was one). On the contrary, he pressed Tournier’s arm a little closer, and said, very softly, as a kind doctor might say when he finds a patient’s symptoms more serious than he thought, but does not therefore give him up, “I am so sorry.”
There was a pause for a minute or two, and they went on walking together.
Tournier was the first to speak.
“I cannot believe that a good God (and I do
not care to believe in an evil one—a devil, as the heathen do, so at least I have heard), but I cannot believe that a good God would blast my hopes as they have been blasted: and, therefore, I believe in none. I cannot. Excuse me, Monseigneur, but my reason refuses to let me do so. I can only believe in fate.”
“And who regulates fate?” asked the bishop.
“Oh, I know not. It regulates itself, I suppose.”
“And therefore is God,” said the bishop, as if he were musing. “But tell me, my friend, how it is you take to heart so keenly the unkindness of fate (as you call it) to yourself, while thousands are buffeted by misfortunes, perhaps as great as your own, and yet maintain equanimity of mind, and even enjoy some pleasure in life?”
“They are not sensitive as I am.”