“Mr. Courjeault! Mr. Courjeault!! Great God! what does this mean?”
I observed that he was advancing towards me, probably with the intention of shaking hands, before the people, but I did not give him time to do it. I left by the back door, and went to the parsonage, which was only a few steps distant. He, then, went back to the door to have a talk with the people, but very few gave him that chance. Though he affected to be exceedingly gay, jocose and talkative, he could not get many people to stop and hear him. Every one, particularly the women, were filled with disgust, at his impudence. Seeing himself nearly deserted, at the church door, he turned his steps towards the parsonage, which he entered, whistling. When he beheld me, he laughed and said:
“Oh! oh! our dear little Father Chiniquy here? How do you do?”
“I am quite unwell,” I answered, “since I see that you are so miserably destroying yourself.”
“I do not want to destroy myself,” he answered; “but it is you who wants to turn me out of my beautiful parish of Bourbonnais, to take my place. With the four blockheads who accompanied you, the other day, you have frightened and persuaded me that my misfortune with Mary was known by all the people; but our good bishop has understood that this was a trick of yours, and that it was one of your lying stories. I came back to take possession of my parish, and turn you out.”
“If the bishop has sent you back here to turn me out, that I may go back to my dear colony, he has just done what I asked him to do; for he knows, better than any man, for what great purpose I came to this country, and that I cannot do my work so long as he asks me to take care of Bourbonnais. I go, at once, and leave you in full possession of your parsonage. But I pity you, when I see the dark cloud which is on your horizon. Good-bye!”
“You are the only dark cloud on my horizon,” he answered. “When you are gone, I will be in as perfect peace as I was before you set your feet in Illinois. Good-bye; and please never come back here, except I invite you.”
I left, and ordered my servant-man to drive me back to St. Anne. But when crossing the village, I saw that there was a terrible excitement among the people. Several times they stopped me, and requested me to remain in their midst to advise them what to do.
But I refused, saying to them: “It would be an insult on my part to advise you anything, in a matter where your duty as men and Catholics is so clear. Consult the respect you owe to yourselves, to your families and to your church, and you will know what to do.”
It took me all night, which was very dark, to come back to St. Anne, where I arrived at dawn, the 9th of May, 1852.