With the last words he gave the sign of dismissal. The people began to disperse slowly and somewhat reluctantly, every member of the crowd being curious to obtain a nearer view of the young orator who not only spoke his thoughts fearlessly, but whose pen was as a scythe mowing down a harvest of shams and hypocrisies, and whose frank utterance from the heart was so honest as to be absolutely convincing to the public. But he, after giving a few further instructions to the men who were beginning to close in his father's grave, walked away with one or two friends, and was soon lost to sight in one of the many winding paths that led from the cemetery out into the road, so that many who anxiously sought to study his features more nearly, were disappointed. One person there was, who had listened to his oration in wonder and open-mouthed admiration,—this was Jean Patoux. He had taken the opportunity offered him in a "cheap excursion" from Rouen to Paris, to visit a cousin of his who was a small florist owning a shop in the Rue St. Honore,—and by chance, he and this same cousin, while quietly walking together down one of the boulevards, had got entangled in the press of people who were pouring into Pere-la-Chaise on this occasion, and had followed them out of curiosity, not at all knowing what they were going to see. But the florist, known as Pierre Midon, soon realised the situation and explained it all to his provincial relative.
"It is the Abbe Vergniaud they are burying," he said,—"He was a wonderful preacher! All fashionable Paris used to go and hear him till he made that pretty scandal of himself a month or so ago. He was a popular and a social favourite; but one fine morning he preached a sermon to his congregation all against the Church, and for that matter against himself too, for he then and there confessed before everybody that he was no true priest. And as he preached,—what think you?—a young man fired a pistol shot at him for his rascality, as everyone supposed, and when the gendarmes would have taken the assassin, this same Abbe stopped them, and refused to punish HIS OWN SON! What do you think of that for a marvel? And something still more marvellous followed, for that very son who tried to kill him was no other than Gys Grandit, the man we have just heard speaking, though nobody knew it till a week afterwards. Such a scene you never saw in a church!—Paris was wild with excitement for a dozen hours, which is about as long as its fevers last,—and the two of them, father and son, went straight away to a famous Cardinal then staying in Paris,—and he, by the way, was in the church when the Abbe publicly confessed himself—Cardinal Bonpre—"
"Ah!" interrupted Patoux excitedly, "This interests me! For that most eminent Cardinal stayed at my inn in Rouen before coming on here!"
"So!" And Cousin Pierre looked rather surprised. "Without offence to thee, Jean, it was a poor place for a Cardinal, was it not?"
"Poor, truly,—but sufficient for a man of his mind!" replied Patoux tranquilly,—"For look you, he is trying to live as Christ lived,—and Christ cared naught for luxury."
Pierre Midon laughed.
"By my faith! If priests were to live as Christ lived, Paris might learn to respect them!" he said,—"But we know that they will not,—and that few of them are better than the worst of us! But to finish my story—this Abbe and the son whom he so suddenly and strangely acknowledged, went to this Cardinal Bonpre for some reason—most probably for pardon, though truly I cannot tell you what happened—for almost immediately, the Abbe went out of Paris to the Chateau D'Agramont some miles away, and his son went with him, and there the two stayed together till the old man died. And as for Cardinal Bonpre, he went at once to Rome with his niece, the famous painter, Angela Sovrani,—I imagine he may have interceded with the Pope, or tried to do so for the Abbe, but whatever happened, there they are now, for all I know to the contrary. And we heard that the Church was about to excommunicate, or had already excommunicated Vergniaud, though I suppose Cardinal Bonpre had nothing to do with that?"
"Not he!" said Patoux firmly, "He would never excommunicate or do any unkind thing to a living soul—that I am pretty sure of. He is the very Cardinal who performed the miracle in my house that has caused us no end of trouble,—and he is under the displeasure of the Pope for it now, if all I hear be true."
"That is strange!" said Pierre with a laugh,—"To be under the displeasure of the Pope for doing a good deed!"
"Truly, it seems so," agreed Patoux,—"But you must remember there was no paying shrine concerned in it! Mark you that, my Pierre! Even our Lady of Bon Secours, near to Rouen as she is, was not applied to. The miracle took place in the poor habitation of an unknown little inn-keeper,—that is myself,—and there was no solemnity at all about it—no swinging of incense—no droning of prayers—no lighting of candles—no anything, but just a good old man with a crippled child on his knee, praying to the Christ whom he believed was able to help him. And—and—"