I remained absolutely stupefied, and did not know what to answer. Though I had compassion for the unfortunate man, I must confess that this new development of his hypocrisy and rascality filled me with an unspeakable horror and disgust. He had, till then, wrapped himself in such a thick mantle of deception that many of his people looked upon him as an angel of purity. His infamies were so well concealed under an exterior of extreme moral rigidity that several of his parishioners looked upon him as a saint, whose relics could perform miracles. Not long before, two young couples, of the best families of Bourbonnais, having danced in a respectable social gathering, had been condemned by him, and compelled to ask pardon, publicly, in the church. This pharisaical rigidity caused the secret vices of that priest to be still more conspicuous and scandalous. I felt that the scandal which would follow the publication of this mystery of iniquity would be awful; that it would even cause many, forever, to lose faith in our church. So many sad thoughts filled my mind that I was confused and unable to give him any advice. I answered:
“Your misfortune is really great. If the bishop were not here, I might, perhaps, tell you my mind about the best thing to do, just now. But the bishop is here; he is the only man to whom you have to go to know how to come out of the bottomless abyss into which you have fallen. He is your proper counsellor; go and tell him, frankly, everything, and follow his advice.”
With staggering step, and in such deep emotions that his sobs and cries could be heard for quite a distance, he went to the bishop. I remained alone, half petrified at what I had heard.
Half an hour later, the bishop came to me. He was pale and his eyes reddened with tears. He said to me:
“Mr. Chiniquy, what an awful scandal! What a new disgrace for our holy church! That Mr. Courjeault, whom I thought, till to-day, to be one of my best priests, is an incarnate devil. What shall I do with him? Please help me by your advice; tell me what you consider the best way of preventing the scandal, and protecting the faith of the good people against the destructive storm which is coming upon them.”
“My dear Bishop,” I answered, “the more I consider these scandals here, the less I see how we can save the church from becoming a dreadful wreck. I feel too much the responsibility of my advice to give it. Let your lordship, guided by the Spirit of God, do what you consider the best for the honor of the church and the salvation of so many souls, which are in danger of perishing when this scandal becomes known. For me, the only thing I can do is to conceal my face with shame, go back to my young colony to pray and weep and work.”
The bishop replied: “Here is what I intend to do. Mr. Courjeault tells me that there is not the least suspicion among the people of his sin, and that it is an easy thing to send that girl to the house provided in Canada for priests’ offenses, without awakening any suspicion. He seems so penitent, that I hope, hereafter, we have nothing to fear from him. He will now live the life of a good priest here, without giving any scandal. But if I remove him, then there will be some suspicions of his fall, and the awful scandal we want to avoid will come. Please lend me $100, which I will give to Mr. Courjeault, to send that girl to Canada as soon as possible; and he will continue here, to work with wisdom after this terrible trial. What do you think of that plan?”
“If your lordship is sure of the conversion of Mr. Courjeault, and that there is no danger of his great iniquity being known by the people, evidently the wisest thing you can do is to send that girl to Canada, and keep Mr. Courjeault here. Though I see great dangers even in that way of dealing in this sad affair. But, unfortunately, I have not a cent in hand to-day, and I cannot lend you the $100 you want.”
“Then,” said the bishop, “I will give a draft on a bank of Chicago, but you must endorse it.”
“I have no objection, my lord, to endorse any draft signed by your lordship,” I replied.