The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

air of inquiry directed at the Cardinal, who met his bold bright glance, mildly and half compassionately.

      "Nothing more my child"—he answered—"Did you expect a miracle? I told you from the first that I was no saint,—I can do no good unless our Lord wills it."

      "The Pope believes in miracles"—said Henri, flushing as he spoke with the heat of a sudden angry emotion—"But only those that are performed on his own behalf! HE thinks that God's chief business is to look after HIM!"

      A silence ensued,—whether of horror or embarrassment could hardly be determined. The Cardinal said nothing,—Babette trembled a little,—what a dreadful boy Henri really was, she thought!—Madame Patoux shut up her eyes in horror, crossed herself devoutly as against some evil spirit, and was about to speak, when Henri, nothing daunted, threw himself into the breach again, and turned with a fiery vehemence of appeal towards the young and thoughtful-looking Manuel.

      "It's just as I say!" he declared hotly—"The Pope is taken as much care of as if he were a peach wrapped in wadding! Was Christ taken care of? No,—He suffered all sorts of hardships and at last was crucified! The Pope shuts himself up in the Vatican with millions and millions of money's worth, while thousands of people around him in Italy alone, are starving and miserable. Christ would not allow such a thing. Christ said 'Sell half that thou hast and give to the poor'—now the Pope doesn't sell half, nor a quarter, nor a bit of a quarter! He takes all he can get and keeps it! And yet God is supposed to work miracles for an old man like that!—Oh I know all about it! Boys read the newspapers as well as grown men!"

      "Henri!" gasped Madame Patoux, extending her fat arm and hand with a solemn gesture of reproach—"Henri, thou art mad . . . wicked . . ."

      But Henri went on unheedingly, still addressing Manuel.

      "Now you are a boy, and I daresay you can read and think,—you are about my age I suppose. And you are left all alone in the world, with nobody to care for you,—well, do you think that is well-arranged?—And do you think there is any sense in believing in a God who does such a lot of cruel things? And when He won't help us ever so little? How can people be good if they keep on praying and praying, and hoping and hoping, and working and working—and yet nothing comes of it all but trouble and pain and loss . . ." He stopped for sheer lack of breath to go on.

      Manuel looked at him quietly, full in the eyes.

      "Yes, it is hard!" he said—"Very hard! But it is not God who does any cruel thing. God is Love,—and the Spirit of Love cannot be cruel. It is the people of the world themselves,—the people who injure each other in thought, word and deed,—and who have no spirit of love in them,—these invite sorrow and pain, and rush upon misfortune. Then they blame God for it! Ah, it is easy to blame God!—so much easier than to blame one's self! And if you ask me if it is well for those who suffer cruel things to still believe in God, I say yes, I do think it well,—for it is the only chance they have of finding the right way of life after much wandering in the wrong."

      His sweet voice fell on the silence like a soft chime, and Henri, for no particular reason that he could give, felt suddenly abashed. Cardinal Bonpre listened to the words of this strange foundling with a singular emotion,—an emotion too deep to find any outlet in speech. Babette raised her brown trustful eyes, and timidly ventured to put in her opinion.

      "Yes"—she said—"I am sure that is true. You see Henri"—with a wise glance at her brother—"you see it is always the same,—when anyone suffers something unfortunate, there is certain to be some cause for it. Now everybody says that if poor Martine had not put Fabien in the cart to save herself the trouble of holding him on her knee, he would not have tumbled out and been hurt. That was the beginning of it. And that was not God's fault. Come Fabien!—we'll take you back now."

      At this, Madame Patoux started from her stricken condition of horrified dumbness into speech and action.

      "Ah yes, it is indeed time!" she exclaimed—"Enough trouble has been given, I am sure, to Monseigneur, and if such a prayer as his does not reach Heaven, why then there is no Heaven at all, and it is no good bothering ourselves about it. And what things have been said by my son!—MY son!—against the Holy Father! Ah, mon Dieu! The wickedness of it!—The horror! And if thou learnest such blasphemy from newspapers, Henri, thou shalt not read them—"

      "Who is to prevent me?" demanded Henri, his eyes sparkling defiantly.

      "Hush—hush my child!" interposed the Cardinal quietly "Nothing indeed can prevent thee,—no one can hinder thee from walking the world according to thine own will and direction. Thou must take good and evil as they come, and strive thy best to discern between them—and if the love of God cannot help thee—well!—perchance the love of thy mother may!"

      There was a pause. Henri's head drooped, and quick tears filled his eyes. He said nothing further, but turned to assist Babette in guiding the little Fabien's hesitating steps as he hobbled from the room. The emotional Madame Patoux choked back a rising sob.

      "God bless you Monseigneur!" she murmured—"Henri will not forget those words—the lad has a hasty temper, but a good heart—yes, believe me—a good heart—"

      "That I am sure of"—responded the Cardinal—"He is quick and intelligent—and seeks to know the truth. If he could feel an asserted 'truth' to be really true, I am confident he would frame his life upon it, and be a good, brave man. Yes—he is a clever lad,—and our modern system of education pushes the brain to a precocity exceeding bodily years,—his impatience and anger only come from puzzling over what he finds it difficult to understand. It is all a puzzle to him—all a puzzle!—as it is to most of us!" He sighed—then added in a lighter tone—"I shall want nothing more at your kindly hands, my daughter. I have decided to leave Rouen for Paris to-day and will take an early afternoon train. Manuel"—and he hesitated a moment—"Manuel will go with me."

      Madame was scarcely surprised at this announcement. She had indeed expected it. She glanced at Manuel himself to see how he accepted this sudden change in his fortunes, but he was entirely absorbed in watching Henri and Babette lead their little crippled friend away. After all, there was nothing to be said. The Cardinal was a free agent,—he had a perfect right to befriend a homeless boy and give him sustenance and protection if he chose. He would make, thought Madame, a perfect acolyte, and would look like a young angel in his little white surplice. And so the good woman, deciding in her own mind that such was the simple destiny for which the Cardinal intended him, smiled, murmured something deferential and approving, and hastened from the room, to prepare for Monseigneur, whether he asked for it or not, a dish of her most excellent soup, to strengthen and support him before starting on his journey. And ere four o'clock had chimed from all the towers of the city, the Hotel Poitiers was deprived of its honoured guest,—the Cardinal, accompanied by his foundling, had departed, and the black, smoky, snake-like train had rushed with them through the smiling peace of the Normandy pasture-lands on towards the brilliant "city enthroned in wickedness," which sparkles like a jewel on the borders of the Seine as gloriously as ever Babylon sparkled on the shores of Euphrates. As godless, as hollow to the very core of rottenness, as her sister of ancient days, wanton "Lutetia" shines,—with the ghastly and unnatural lustre of phosphorescent luminance arising from old graves—and as divinely determined as the destruction of the old-time city splendid, is the approaching downfall of the modern capital. To the inhabitants of Rouen, the very name of Paris carries with it a kind of awe,—it excites various emotions of wonder, admiration, longing, curiosity and even fear,—for Paris is a witches' cauldron in which Republicanism, Imperialism, Royalism, Communism and Socialism, are all thrown by the Fates to seethe together in a hellish broth of conflicting elements—and the smoke of it ascends in reeking blasphemy to Heaven. Not from its church-altars does the cry of "How long, O Lord, how long!" ascend nowadays,—for its priests are more skilled in the use of the witty bon-mot or the polished sneer than in the power of the prophet's appeal,—it is from the Courts of Science that the warning note of terror sounds,—the cold vast courts where reasoning thinkers wander, and learn, and deeply meditate, knowing that all their researches but go to prove the fact that apart from all creed and all forms of creed, Crime carries Punishment as surely as the seed is born with