“Turn to the left for the cathedral. She has had above ten minutes’ start of you.”
The morning was dark,—the first unpromising day since they had left St. Germains. Roger walked through a hideous black rain to the cathedral, which loomed dark and mysterious through the veil of rain. A handful of worshippers revealed the vastness of the interior. Roger had no difficulty in distinguishing Michelle in the dusk of the great nave. She had on a long black cloak which enveloped her, and which she drew around her throat, so that it almost concealed her dainty face in its black hood. He thought she was weeping. The sound of the rain descending on the vaulted roof was like thunder, and there was not a ray of light except two sparks of candles on the high altar, and the faint glow of the sanctuary lamp. Roger Egremont said his prayers that morning as most human beings do; that is, he implored happiness from the Giver of all good, as children cry out for their favorite toy, and thought, because he was very earnest about it, that he was very devout. Then he asked forgiveness for his sins and offered forgiveness to his enemies in rather a lukewarm manner, but thought himself extremely pious to do so at all. He had no sweet unction of the soul as at Meaux; but at last some glimmer of light revealed to him his miserable imperfections, the multitude and vigor of his bad impulses; and, as it always follows, the sense of his own unworthiness raised his belief that there was One infinitely good, who desired him to be good also. He looked at Michelle and wondered what sins she had upon her conscience, thinking foolishly, as most men do, that a person removed from the temptations of war, women and liquor, must find it easy to be good. When the service was over Roger was still kneeling, and thinking so profoundly of her that she thought he was praying as she passed him. But some instinct always revealed to Roger when she was near. He detected that light step among many others upon the stone floor. He rose quickly and joined her.
As they walked through the muddy street together Roger suddenly asked her what prayer was.
“I can tell you very readily what it is not,” replied Michelle. “To weary Heaven with our supplications for happiness is not prayer. No such prayers were made in the garden of Gethsemane, nor upon Calvary.”
Roger was abashed.
“I see,” he said sorrowfully, “that I do not yet know what it is to pray.”
“What are your prayers?” asked Michelle, very gently, but half laughing. Roger, assisting her over puddles and trying to shield her from the rain with his broad hat, replied,—
“I think my first prayers were that I might succeed in catching my game; for, as you know, my youth was spent in caring for some of God’s dumb creatures far beyond their worth,—such as horses and dogs,—and mercilessly destroying others, like fishes and foxes. Then, when I grew older, I prayed that the reign of King James might succeed,—you see, mademoiselle, I had a great stake in it, being a staunch supporter of the King,—and then I demanded, rather than asked, that God should continue me in health and prosperity. After I was in Newgate gaol, I did not pray at all for a while, thinking that the Most High had treated me shabbily in suffering me to come to such a pass in defence of my King and country against the foreigner.”
Roger told this with such an air of naïveté that Michelle smiled quite openly.
“When I again prayed, it was that God would punish my enemies, especially Hugo Stein, who calls himself Hugo Egremont. I can truly say that when it came to praying for revenge upon him, I wrestled in prayer as did Jacob with the angel. Presently I saw the folly of this, and concluded to leave Hugo Stein’s punishment in God’s hands—as I could not take it out, observe—and meanwhile to do all that lay in my small powers to compass Hugo’s destruction. That is what men call, I believe, submitting to God’s will.”