“And what did my Lord Prince say to that,” asked again Mr. Brassard.
“Just as when he was cornered by me, on the subject of the Virgin Mary, he abruptly put an end to the conversation, by looking at his watch and saying that he had a call to make, at that very hour.”
Not long after that painful conversation about the Holy Fathers, it was the will of God, that a new arrow should be thrust into my Roman Catholic conscience, which went through and through, in spite of myself.
I had been invited to give a course of three sermons at Varennes. The second day, at tea time, after preaching and hearing confessions for the whole afternoon, I was coming from the church with the curate, when half-way to the parsonage, we were met by a poor man, who looked more like one coming out of the grave, than a living man; he was covered with rags, and his pale and trembling lips indicated that he was reduced to the last degree of human misery. Taking off his hat, through respect for us, he said to Rev. Primeau, with a trembling voice; “You know, Mr. le Cure, that my poor wife died, and was buried ten days ago, but I was too poor to have a funeral service sung the day she was buried, and I fear she is in purgatory, for almost every night, I see her in my dreams, wrapped up in burning flames. She cries to me for help, and asks me to have a high mass sung for the rest of her soul. I come to ask you to be so kind as to sing that high mass for her.”
“Of course,” answered the curate, “your wife is in the flames of purgatory, and suffers there the most unspeakable tortures, which can be relieved only by the offering of the holy sacrifice of mass. Give me five dollars and I will sing that mass to-morrow morning.”
“You know very well, Mr. le Cure,” answered the poor man, in a most supplicating tone, “that my wife has been sick, as well as myself, a good part of the year. I am too poor to give you five dollars!”
“If you cannot pay, you cannot have any mass sung. You know it is the rule. It is not in my power to change it.”
These words were said by the curate with a high and unfeeling tone, which were in absolute contrast with the solemnity and distress of the poor sick man. They made a very painful impression upon me, for I felt for him. I knew the curate was well-off, at the head of one of the richest parishes of Canada; that he had several thousand dollars in the bank. I hoped at first, that he would kindly grant the petition presented to him, without speaking of the pay, but I was disappointed. My first thought, after hearing his hard rebuke, was to put my hand in my pocket and take one of the several five-dollar gold pieces I had, and give it to the poor man, that he might be relieved from his terrible anxiety about his wife. It came also to my mind to say to him: “I will sing your high mass for nothing to-morrow.” But alas! I must confess, to my shame, I was too cowardly to do that noble deed. I had a sincere desire to do it, but was prevented by the fear of insulting that priest, who was older than myself, and for whom I had always entertained great respect. It was evident to me that he would have taken my action as a condemnation of his conduct.
When I was feeling ashamed of my own cowardice, and still more indignant against myself than against the curate, he said to the disconcerted poor man: “That woman is your wife; not mine. It is your business, and not mine, to see how to get her out of purgatory.”
Turning to me, he said, in the most amiable way: “Please, sir, come to tea.”