Nothing could be more proper and to the point, nor more utterly stiff and frozen, than this dialogue was. F. Chevreuse shivered, and called little Rose—Rosebud, they named her—to him.
The child went with a most captivating mingling of shyness and obedience in her air, walking a little from side to side, as a ship beats against the wind, making way in spite of fears. Her red cheeks growing redder, a tremor struggling with a smile on her small mouth, the intrepid little blossom allowed herself to be lifted to the stranger’s knees, her eyes seeking her friend’s for courage and strength.
Mr. Schöninger smiled on his favorite with a tenderness which gave his face a new character, and watched curiously while the priest reassured and petted her till he won her attention to himself. His own experience and the traditions of his people had taught him to look on the Catholic Church as his most deadly antagonist; yet now, in spite of all, his heart relented and warmed a little to one of her ministers. He knew better than to take an apparent love for children as any proof of goodness—some of the worst persons he had ever known were excessively fond of them—yet it looked amiable in an honest person, and F. Chevreuse’s manner was particularly pleasant and winning.
Embarrassed by the notice bestowed on her by all, yet, with a premature address, seeking to hide that embarrassment, the child glanced about the room in search of some diversion. Her eyes were caught by a picture of the Madonna.
“Oh! who is that pretty lady with a wedding-ring round her head?” she cried out.
“She,” said F. Chevreuse, “is a sweet and holy Jewish lady whom we all love.”
The little girl glanced apprehensively at her friend—perhaps she had been told never to speak the word Jew in his presence—and saw a quick light flicker in his eyes. He was looking keenly at the priest, as if trying to fathom his intention. Was the man determined to win him in spite of his coldness? Was it his way of making proselytes, this fascinating delicacy and tenderness? He did not wish to like F. Chevreuse; yet what could he do in the presence of that radiant charity?
“I think our business is done, sir,” he said, rising.
The priest became matter-of-fact at once.
“It is not necessary for me to make any suggestions to your good taste,” he said; “but I may be permitted to remark that our service is not merely æsthetic, but has a vital meaning, and I would like the music to be conducted earnestly.”