The next day, February 17, 1881, about ten in the evening, I arrived at the opera, and went behind the scenes to search for Monsieur Morin. "The Prophet" was being played, and the third act had just begun. On the stage the Anabaptists were singing forcibly:
"Du sang! que Judas succombe!
Du sang! Dansons sur leur tombe!
Du sang! Voila l'hécatombe
Que Dieu nous demande encor!"
Axes were raised over the heads of a crowd of hapless prisoners, who were barons, bishops, monks, and grand ladies. In the wings, balanced on their skates, all the ballet-girls were waiting the right moment to
"Effleurer la glace
Sans laisser de trace."
I respectfully begged one of the young Westphalian peasant-girls to point out to me the man named Morin.
"Morin," she replied, "is not one of the skaters. Look, he is on the stage. That's he over there, the one who is doing the bishop; that bishop, you see, who is being pushed and pulled. Wait, he will be off directly."
One of the Anabaptist leaders intervened, however, declaring that the nobles and priests who could pay ransom should be spared. Morin escaped with his life, and I had the honor of being presented to him by the little Westphalian peasant-girl.
He had quite a venerable air, with his long gray beard and his fine purple robe with his large pastoral cross. While he was arranging somewhat his costume, which had been so roughly pulled by those violent Anabaptists, I asked him if he would be willing to give lessons to two young girls of good family.
The pious bishop accepted with alacrity. His price was ten francs an hour.
The little skaters had gone on the stage, and were performing wonderful feats. The wings had suddenly become calm and silent. We gave ourselves up, his Reverence and myself, to a little friendly chat.