“You will admit” pursued the King, “that the action of human thought is always progressive. Unfortunately your Creed lags behind human thought in its onward march, thus causing the intelligent world to infer that there must be something wrong with its teaching. For if the Church had always been in all respects faithful to the teaching of her Divine Master, she would be at this present time the supreme Conqueror of Nations. Yet she is doing no more nowadays than she did in the middle ages,—she threatens, she intimidates, she persecutes all who dare to use for a reasonable purpose the brain God gave them,—but she does not help on or sympathize with the growing fraternity and civilization of the world. It is impossible not to recognize this. Yet I have a profound respect for each and every minister of religion who honestly endeavours to follow the counsels of Christ,”—here he paused,—then added with slow and marked emphasis—“in whose Holy Name I devoutly believe for the redemption of whatever there is in me worth redeeming;—nevertheless my first duty, even in Christ, is plainly to the people of the country over which I am elected to rule.”
The flickering shadow of a smile passed over the Jesuit’s dark features, but he still kept silence.
“Therefore,” went on the King—“it is my unpleasant task to be compelled to inform you, Monsignor, that the inhabitants of the district your Order seeks to take under its influence, have the strongest objection to your presence among them. So strong indeed is their aversion towards your Society, that they have petitioned me in numerous ways, (and with considerable eloquence, too, for ‘untaught barbarians’) to defend them from your visitation. Now, to speak truly, I find they have all the advantages which modern advancement and social improvement can give them,—they attend their places of public worship in considerable numbers, and are on the whole decent, God-fearing, order-loving subjects to the Throne,—and more I do not desire for them or for myself. Criminal cases are very rare in the district,—and the poor are more inclined to help than to defraud each other. All this is so far good,—and, I should imagine,—not displeasing to God. In any case, as their merely temporal sovereign, I must decline to give your Order any control over them.”
“You refuse the concession of land, Sir?” said Del Fortis, in a voice that trembled with restrained passion.
“To satisfy those of my subjects who have appealed to me, I am compelled to do so,” replied the King.
“I pray your Majesty’s pardon, but a portion of the land is held by private persons who are prepared to sell to us——”
A quick anger flashed in the King’s eyes.
“They shall sell to me if they sell at all,”—he said,—“I repeat, Monsignor, the fact that the law-abiding people of the place have sought their King’s protection from priestly interference;—and,—by Heaven!—they shall have it!”
There was a sudden silence. Sir Roger de Launay drew a sharp breath,—his habitual languor of mind was completely dissipated, and he studied the inscrutable face of Del Fortis with deepening suspicion and disfavour. Not that there was the slightest sign of wrath or dismay on the priest’s well-disciplined countenance;—on the contrary, a chill smile illumined it as he spoke his next words with a serious, if somewhat forced composure.
“Your Majesty is, without doubt, all powerful in your own particular domain of society and politics,” he said—“But there is another Majesty higher than yours,—that of the Church, before which dread and infallible Tribunal even kings are brought to naught——”