“Yes, my lord, I know the contents of these communications. I have read them, several times, with supreme disgust and indignation; and I positively assert that I never wrote a single line of them.”
“Then, can you tell me who did write them?” said the bishop.
I answered: “Please, my lord, put that question to the Rev. Mr. Courjeault; he is more able than any one to satisfy your lordship on that matter.”
I looked at Mr. Courjeault with an indignant air, which told him, that he could not any longer wear the mask, behind which he had concealed himself, for the last three or four months. The eyes of the bishop were also turned, and firmly fixed on the wretched priest.
No! Never had I seen anything so strange, as the countenance of that guilty man. His face, though usually ugly, suddenly took a cadaverous appearance; his eyes were fixed on the floor, as if unable to move.
The only signs of life left in him, were given by his knees, which were shaking convulsively; and by the big drops of sweat rolling down his unwashed face; for, I must say here, en passant, that, with very few exceptions, that priest was the dirtiest man I ever saw.
The bishop, with unutterable expressions of indignation, exclaimed:
“Mr. Courjeault; you are the writer of those infamous and slanderous letters! Three times, you have written, and twice you told me, verbally, that they were coming from Mr. Chiniquy! I do not ask you if you are the author of these slanders against me.
“I see it written in your face. Your malice against Mr. Chiniquy, is really diabolical. You wanted to ruin him in my estimation, as well as in that of his countrymen. And to succeed the better in that plot, you publish the most egregious falsehoods against me in the Canadian press, to induce me to denounce Mr. Chiniquy as an impostor.
“How is it possible that a priest can so completely give himself to the Devil?”