And while they were speaking Jesus was giving, at "the Three Kings," in its three hundred rooms, private audience to three hundred interviewers at the same time, and to each he appeared different. On leaving, some declared he had fair hair, others that it was dark. To the philosopher he appeared a philosopher; to the artist more beautiful than Apollo; to the soldier a divine warrior.
Last of all came "the Scribes and Pharisees," as of old, to question him. "Are you really the Son of God?" "Are you going to tell us again that salvation is difficult for the rich?" "Are you going to be crucified anew?" and so on. The Churches held aloof. He had not come as they expected.
We will not describe how our author solves the problems, economic, social, and religious, which this unsuspected advent of Jesus causes in Paris. It suffices to say that the crisis was met and tided over for the time being.
One circumstance, however, must be mentioned: woman was honored as never before. Civil marriage alone is legal in France; in more than sixty per cent of the couples presenting themselves before the civil authorities for the ratification of their marriage, the unexpected happened. Instead of the perfunctory "Yes" which was almost invariably the rule, one or other of the contracting parties would say "No." There were no more ill-assorted matches, none of those crimes against humanity that the marriage service, not only among the French, but in every nation, condones. And the children, they had never been so happy before, so unrestrained, and yet so well-behaved. Even the youths and maidens, as they walked through the streets or wandered in the parks, showed a self-restraint and tenderness for one another never remarked before. Older people stood and looked after them in wonder. Something idyllic and noble had entered into and stopped the bantering, mocking, scoffing tone of the average Parisian. It was beautiful, some thought it unnatural—would it last?
Towards the end of December Jesus preaches to the people—this time from Montmartre. All Paris is gathered there to hear him. Again the gracious words are heard, but are received and interpreted by each in accordance with his own interests and prejudices. "The common people heard him gladly," but the rich and learned murmured. He spoke of self-sacrifice and devotion to ideals; the majority, though convicted of sin, with seared hearts, felt revolt rising within. When Jesus had ended and had betaken himself away, "for their eyes were holden, that they should not see," it was in a state of astonishment, deception, consternation, even rage, that the crowd slowly melted away. Many men, mere simulacra of humanity—though considered the pillars of society—made haste to flee the place where all they held most dear, their success, their station, their darling sins, were menaced. But the innocent, the poor and the wretched, felt that it was an awakening from an all-too-sweet dream to the harsh realities of the pitiless struggle for life.
It was the beginning of the end. Ere many days had passed, Jesus was asked to leave the city, "and normal life, with its political institutions, its scientific progress, its suffragettes, its railway accidents, theater-parties, and fashionably attired women, resumed its wonted course." By a kind of tacit agreement no one spoke any more of the disconcerting events of the last days of December. The newspapers wore their wonted appearance; "twenty lines, identical in every case," was all the press notice of what had so profoundly stirred men's souls.
And Narda, the veteran journalist, the new disciple of Jesus? Brought face to face with his divine self, he saw himself once again when in youth, with forehead high and heart full of hope, he had vowed allegiance to the highest. And now? Was it lack of courage? He lost his grasp of that divine life to which all are called, and which had awakened once again with so much power in him. "He has come in vain," he cried, "we cannot endure him."
How true, alas! are the sad words of Baudelaire, which Charles Morice prefixes to his work: "Mais le damné répond toujours: Je ne veux pas!"—The lost soul always replies: I do not want to.