"Read to me, Manuel," then said Bonpre, seating himself near the window, and looking out dreamily on the rich foliage of the woods and grassy slopes that stretched before him, "Find something in the Gospels that will fit what we have seen to-day. I am tired of all these temples and churches!—these gorgeous tombs and reliquaries; they represent penances and thank-offerings no doubt, but to me they seem useless. A church should not be a shrine for worldly stuff, unless indeed such things are used again for the relief of poverty and suffering; but they are not used; they are simply kept under lock and key and allowed to accumulate,—while human creatures dwelling perhaps quite close to these shrines, are allowed to die of starvation. Did you think this when you spoke to the priest who was offended with you to-day?"
"Yes, I thought it," replied Manuel gently, "But then he said I was a heretic. When one loves God better than the Church is one called a heretic?"
Cardinal Bonpre looked earnestly at the boy's inspired face,—the face of a dreaming angel in its deep earnestness.
"If so, then I am heretic," he answered slowly, "I love the Creator as made manifest to me in His works,—I love Him in every flower which I am privileged to look upon,—I find Him in every art and science,—I worship Him in a temple not made with hands,—His own majestic Universe! Above all churches,—above all formulated creeds and systems I love Him! And as declared in the divine humanity of Christ I believe in, and adore Him! If this makes me unworthy to be His priest and servant then I confess my unworthiness!"
He had spoken these words more to himself than Manuel, and in his fervour had closed his eyes and clasped his hands,—and he almost fancied that a soft touch, light as a falling rose-leaf, had for a second rested on his brow. He looked up quickly, wondering whether it was Manuel who had so touched him,—the boy was certainly near him,—but was already seated with the Testament open ready to read as requested. The Cardinal raised himself in his chair,—a sense of lightness, and freedom, and ease, possessed him,—the hopeless and tired feeling which had a few minutes since weighed him down with an undefinable languor was gone,—and his voice had gained new strength and energy when he once more spoke.
"You have found words of our Lord which will express what we have seen to-day?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Manuel, and he read in a clear vibrating tone, "Woe unto you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites; because ye build the tombs of the prophets and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous." Here he paused and said, while the Cardinal gazed at him wonderingly, "Is not that true of Paris? There is their great Pantheon where most of their prophets lie,—their poets and their teachers whom they wronged and slandered in their lifetime—"
"My child," interrupted Bonpre gently, "Poets and so-called teachers are not always good men. One named Voltaire, who scoffed at God, and enunciated the doctrine of materialism in France, is buried there."
"Nevertheless he also was a prophet," persisted Manuel, in his quiet, half-childlike, half-scholarly way, "A prophet of evil. He was the incarnation of the future spirit of Paris. He lived as a warning of what was to come,—a warning of the wolves that were ready to descend upon the Master's fold. But Paris was then perhaps in the care of those 'hirelings' who are mentioned here as caring not for the sheep."
He turned a few pages and continued reading.