A group of people near him parted, and out of it Jean saw the archbishop slowly advance. The look of intense suffering on his face had driven away the peace that formerly rested there, but his countenance was untinged by venom or desire for revenge. His sunken eyes met the glass-maker’s, and Jean, a sob clutching at his throat, fell on his knees and began gathering up the gems of shattered glass that lay at his feet. He rose as the archbishop reached him, and held out the fragments to him. For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes without speaking, then a wistful little smile flitted across the archbishop’s face.
“The Lord hath given—the Lord hath taken away.” There was a pause while he waited for the response; but the old vitrier’s chin had sunk on his breast, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were fastened on the gleaming bits of glass. Once more the archbishop’s voice fell on his ears:
“Blessed be the name of the Lord.” There was an accent of surprised reproach in the patient tones, but only pity shone on the gentle countenance as he noted the quivering face of the old man who, turning abruptly away, disappeared into the crowd.
A chorus of voices rose shrilly above the shrieking of the shells:
“The roof is on fire! It’s burning!”
The words galvanized the archbishop into action.
“The wounded!” he exclaimed. “They will perish if they remain where they are!”
“Let ’em!” retorted a thick-set ouvrier. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. “They deserve to die, and they’re not fit to live!” He turned brusquely away, and stared with sullen eyes at the smoking roof from which jets of flame were spurting.
A look of anguish crept over the archbishop’s face. Could it be that his flock had caught so little of the spirit of his teaching that, when it was put to the test, it collapsed as the mighty edifice was crumbling under the demolishing shells? If this were so, it explained the destruction of the cathedral as the retribution for the failure of his ministry. His life work, as well as his life trust, was disintegrating before his eyes. Even Jean Monneuze, the spirituality of whose life, in daily contact with the inspiring sanctuary they both adored, had faltered under the supreme test, and if Jean, for whom he would have vouched under all circumstances, would succumb, how could he expect that the others, with so incomparably less sustaining spiritual strength in their lives, would respond to the call. The bitterness of Gethsemane fell on him, and his face, lighted by the glare from the burning structure, was drawn with pain.
A shell hurtled through the air, and fell against the portal. Rending from its place the head of the Angel with the Smile, it flung it into the Square. Angry mutterings rose from the crowd as the ouvrier picked up the head and held it aloft for every one to see.