“Now shall my eyes, even mine, have the consolation of seeing that valueless saint lying in the dust shattered into a thousand pieces.”
With a bang which was intended as a further vent for her distressed feelings, Nanon threw wide open the side gate leading from the secluded greenery of the garden into the dusty street. Then she stopped suddenly as though she had received a shock; the gleam of triumphant satisfaction faded from her eyes, her ruddy color turned to gray pallor. The ecclesiastical authorities would likely view with strong disfavor any disrespect paid to the saints; some thought of the consequences of her action began to penetrate Nanon’s agitated mind.
Looking thoughtfully down at the fragments of the ill-used St. Joseph stood a priest. He was a large, powerfully-built man, in a narrow collar, long dusty black coat and three-cornered hat. As she met his kindly piercing gaze Nanon’s wrath faded, and she bent her head while he raised his hands with a slight gesture of benediction before he blessed her. Her quick feminine intuition taught her that she would fare much better with this man than if she had fallen into the hands of the Jesuits. There were few in Ville Marie but had unqualified faith in the gigantic soldier priest, Father Dollier de Casson, Superior of the Seminary of St. Sulpice.
“Why, what is this? Didst thou imagine, my good Nanon, that the passers-by were heathen Iroquois, that thou shouldst assault them by means of the holy saints?”
Nanon in the excitement of the moment forgot her fear and recovered her natural audacity. As she remembered her grievances her breast shook with great sobs; for a second the passion struggling in her throat could find no utterance. At last she broke forth:
“The worthless, deceiving saint! My little noble, gentle mistress, pure and guileless as the holy saints themselves, cast aside for any tag of rubbish! Of all the great and noble ladies whom God has sent into this world to beautify His creation, to glorify His name, and for the relief and happiness of their fellow-creatures, none ever fulfilled the object of the Creator more perfectly than our demoiselle. Yet, behold that kite of an Anne, stuck all over with feathers of spite and hypocrisy, her very look enough to turn milk sour, and she boasts that she receives of the saints every favor she demands. And if the saints fail us what is to become of us poor common people who have no other protection?”
The priest listened with silent attention to the confused, vehement recital. He was too thoroughly versed in the intricacies of human nature not to readily comprehend the faithful serving-woman’s meaning. He had himself a passion for duty and discipline, a genius for command and obedience, while his whole soul loathed dastards and renegades. A good Christian, laboring manfully at his calling, he had made the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of his flock his own. In the most cordial fashion he worked for the people, dogmatized, and stormed at them, but, however strict to his ideal of duty, he never lost patience with human frailty.
“Ah, the good-for-nothing saint! Figure to yourself, my Father, a neuvena in his honor—never a word omitted though the poor bones ached and the eyes were drowsy with sleep—four candles burning perpetually before his altar, and all of the very best. Nothing did I grudge if only the little demoiselle could have her heart’s desire. It was I that took her from the arms of her dying mother—me, but a slip of a girl myself—and she has been my charge, my first thought, ever since.” Here beating her hands together, Nanon yielded to a new transport of exasperation.
The Sulpician cast a keen glance from under the white eyebrows which contrasted with his hale, sunburned face.
“Voyons, my daughter. You would desire high place and favor in this world for Mademoiselle de Monesthrol.”