Then to the Cure and the avocat: “You shall visit me whenever you will, and you are to wait for nothing, or I shall come to fetch you. Voila! I am so glad to see you. And now, dear Cure, will you take me to my carriage?”
Soon there was a surf of dust rising behind the carriage, hiding her; but four men, left behind in the little garden, stood watching, as if they expected to see a vision in rose and gold rise from it; and each was smiling unconsciously.
CHAPTER IV
Since Friday night the good Cure, in his calm, philosophical way, had brooded much over the talk in the garden upon France, the Revolution, and Napoleon. As a rule, his sermons were commonplace almost to a classical simplicity, but there were times when, moved by some new theme, he talked to the villagers as if they, like himself, were learned and wise. He thought of his old life in France, of two Napoleons that he had seen, and of the time when, at Neuilly, a famous general burst into his father’s house, and, with streaming tears, cried:
“He is dead—he is dead—at St. Helena—Napoleon! Oh, Napoleon!”
A chapter from Isaiah came to the Cure’s mind. He brought out his Bible from the house, and, walking up and down, read aloud certain passages. They kept singing in his ears all day
He will surely violently turn and toss thee like a ball into a large
country: there shalt thou die, and there the chariots of thy glory
shall be the shame of thy lord’s house....
And it shall come to pass in that day, that I will call my servant
Eliakim the son of Hilkiah
And I will clothe him with thy robe, and strengthen him with thy
girdle, and I will commit thy government into his hand....
And I will fasten him as a nail in a sure place; and he shall be for
a glorious throne to his father’s house.
And they shall hang upon him all the glory of his father’s house,
the offspring and the issue....
He looked very benign as he quoted these verses in the pulpit on Sunday morning, with a half smile, as of pleased meditation. He was lost to the people before him, and when he began to speak, it was as in soliloquy. He was talking to a vague audience, into that space where a man’s eyes look when he is searching his own mind, discovering it to himself. The instability of earthly power, the putting down of the great, their exile and chastening, and their restoration in their own persons, or in the persons of their descendants—this was his subject. He brought the application down to their own rude, simple life, then returned with it to a higher plane.
At last, as if the memories of France, “beloved and incomparable,” overcame him, he dwelt upon the bitter glory of the Revolution. Then, with a sudden flush, he spoke of Napoleon. At that name the church became still, and the dullest habitant listened intently. Napoleon was in the air—a curious sequence to the song that was sung on the night of Valmond’s arrival, when a phrase was put in the mouths of the parish, which gave birth to a personal reality. “Vive Napoleon!” had been on every lip this week, and it was an easy step from a phrase to a man.