The three musketeers
part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Monsieur
the Principal of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are
arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much
interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion.”
“The opinion of a swordsman can have very little weight,” replied
D’Artagnan, who began to be uneasy at the turn things were taking, “and
you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these
gentlemen.”
The two men in black bowed in their turn.
“On the contrary,” replied Aramis, “your opinion will be very valuable.
The question is this: Monsieur the Principal thinks that my thesis
ought to be dogmatic and didactic.”
“Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?”
“Without doubt,” replied the Jesuit. “In the examination which precedes
ordination, a thesis is always a requisite.”
“Ordination!” cried D’Artagnan, who could not believe what the hostess
and Bazin had successively told him; and he gazed, half stupefied, upon
the three persons before him.
“Now,” continued Aramis, taking the same graceful position in his easy
chair that he would have assumed in bed, and complacently examining his
hand, which was as white and plump as that of a woman, and which he
held in the air to cause the blood to descend, “now, as you have heard,
D’Artagnan, Monsieur the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be
dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This
is the reason why Monsieur the Principal has proposed to me the
following subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I
perceive there is matter for magnificent elaboration—‘_Utraque manus in
benedicendo clericis inferioribus necessaria est_.’”
D’Artagnan, whose erudition we are well acquainted with, evinced no
more interest on hearing this quotation than he had at that of M. de
Tréville in allusion to the gifts he pretended that D’Artagnan had
received from the Duke of Buckingham.
“Which means,” resumed Aramis, that he might perfectly understand,
“‘The two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders,
when they bestow the benediction.’”
“An admirable subject!” cried the Jesuit.
“Admirable and dogmatic!” repeated the curate, who, about as strong as
D’Artagnan with respect to Latin, carefully watched the Jesuit in order
to keep step with him, and repeated his words like an echo.
As to D’Artagnan, he remained perfectly insensible to the enthusiasm of
the two men in black.
“Yes, admirable! _prorsus admirabile!_” continued Aramis; “but which
requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Fathers. Now,
I have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all
humility, that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the king
have caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself,
therefore, more at my ease, _facilius natans_, in a subject of my own
choice, which would be to these hard theological questions what morals
are to metaphysics in philosophy.”
D’Artagnan began to be tired, and so did the curate.
“See what an exordium!” cried the Jesuit.
“Exordium,” repeated the curate, for the sake of saying something.
“_Quemadmodum inter cœlorum immensitatem_.”
Aramis cast a glance upon D’Artagnan to see what effect all this
produced, and found his friend gaping enough to split his jaws.
“Let us speak French, my father,” said he to the Jesuit; “Monsieur
d’Artagnan will enjoy our conversation better.”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “I am fatigued with reading, and all this
Latin confuses me.”
“Certainly,” replied the Jesuit, a little put out, while the curate,
greatly delighted, turned upon D’Artagnan a look full of gratitude.
“Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the
servant of God—he was but a servant, please to understand—Moses blessed
with the hands; he held out both his arms while the Hebrews beat their
enemies, and then he blessed them with his two hands. Besides, what
does the Gospel say? _Imponite manus_, and not _manum_—place the
_hands_, not the _hand_.”
“Place the _hands_,” repeated the curate, with a gesture.
“St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the Popes are the successors,”
continued the Jesuit; “_porrige digitos_—present the fingers. Are you
there, now?”
“_Certes_,” replied Aramis, in a pleased tone, “but the thing is
subtle.”
“The _fingers_,” resumed the Jesuit, “St. Peter blessed with the
_fingers_. The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how
many fingers does he bless? With _three_ fingers, to be sure—one for
the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost.”
All crossed themselves. D’Artagnan thought it was proper to follow this
example.
“The Pope is the successor of St. Peter, and represents the three
divine powers; the rest—_ordines inferiores_—of the ecclesiastical
hierarchy bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most
humble clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water
sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers.
There is the subject simplified. _Argumentum omni denudatum ornamento_.
I could make of that subject two volumes the size of this,” continued
the Jesuit; and in his enthusiasm he struck a St. Chrysostom in folio,
which made the table bend beneath its weight.
D’Artagnan trembled.
“_Certes_,” said Aramis, “I do justice to the beauties of this thesis;
but at the same time I perceive it would be overwhelming for me. I had
chosen this text—tell me, dear D’Artagnan, if it is not to your
taste—‘_Non inutile est desiderium in oblatione_’; that is, ‘A little
regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lord.’”
“Stop there!” cried the Jesuit, “for that thesis touches closely upon
heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in the _Augustinus_ of
the heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by
the hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are
inclining toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost.”
“You will be lost,” said the curate, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock.
You face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the semi-Pelagians.”
“But, my Reverend—” replied Aramis, a little amazed by the shower of
arguments that poured upon his head.
“How will you prove,” continued the Jesuit, without allowing him time
to speak, “that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to
God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To
regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion.”
“And that is mine also,” said the curate.
“But, for heaven’s sake—” resumed Aramis.
“_Desideras diabolum_, unhappy man!” cried the Jesuit.
“He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend,” added the curate,
groaning, “do not regret the devil, I implore you!”
D’Artagnan felt himself bewildered. It seemed to him as though he were
in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those he saw. He was,
however, forced to hold his tongue from not comprehending half the
language they employed.
“But listen to me, then,” resumed Aramis with politeness mingled with a
little impatience. “I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce
that sentence, which would not be orthodox.”
The Jesuit raised his hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same.
“No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to
the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don’t you
think so, D’Artagnan?”
“I think so, indeed,” cried he.
The Jesuit and the curate quite started from their chairs.
“This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not
wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now,
the Scripture says positively, ‘Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.’”
“That is true,” said his antagonists.
“And then,” said Aramis, pinching his ear to make it red, as he rubbed
his hands to make them white, “and then I made a certain _rondeau_ upon
it last year, which I showed to Monsieur Voiture, and that great man
paid me a thousand compliments.”
“A _rondeau!_” said the Jesuit, disdainfully.
“A _rondeau!_” said the curate, mechanically.
“Repeat it! Repeat it!” cried D’Artagnan; “it will make a little
change.”
“Not so, for it is religious,” replied Aramis; “it is theology in
verse.”
“The devil!” said D’Artagnan.
“Here it is,” said Aramis, with a little look of diffidence, which,
however, was not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy:
“Vous qui pleurez un passé plein de charmes,
Et qui trainez des jours infortunés,
Tous vos malheurs se verront terminés,
Quand à Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes,
Vous qui pleurez!”
“You who weep for pleasures fled,
While dragging on a life of care,
All your woes will melt in air,
If to God your tears are shed,
You who weep!”
D’Artagnan and the curate appeared pleased. The Jesuit persisted in his
opinion. “Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What
says Augustine on this subject: ‘_Severus sit clericorum verbo_.’”
“Yes, let the sermon be clear,” said the curate.
“Now,” hastily interrupted the Jesuit, on seeing that his acolyte was
going astray, “now your thesis would please the ladies; it would have
the success of one of Monsieur Patru’s pleadings.”
“Please God!” cried Aramis, transported.
“There it is,” cried the Jesuit; “the world still speaks within you in
a loud voice, _altisimâ voce_. You follow the world, my young friend,
and I tremble lest grace prove not efficacious.”
“Be satisfied, my reverend father, I can answer for myself.”
“Mundane presumption!”
“I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable.”
“Then you persist in continuing that thesis?”
“I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see
about the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied
with the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice.”
“Work slowly,” said the curate; “we leave you in an excellent tone of
mind.”
“Yes, the ground is all sown,” said the Jesuit, “and we have not to
fear that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another
upon the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest,
_aves cœli comederunt illam_.”
“Plague stifle you and your Latin!” said D’Artagnan, who began to feel
all his patience exhausted.
“Farewell, my son,” said the curate, “till tomorrow.”
“Till tomorrow, rash youth,” said the Jesuit. “You promise to become
one of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not
a devouring fire!”
D’Artagnan, who for an hour past had been gnawing his nails with
impatience, was beginning to attack the quick.
The two men in black rose, bowed to Aramis and D’Artagnan, and advanced
toward the door. Bazin, who had been standing listening to all this
controversy with a pious jubilation, sprang toward them, took the
breviary of the curate and the missal of the Jesuit, and walked
respectfully before them to clear their way.
Aramis conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and then immediately
came up again to D’Artagnan, whose senses were still in a state of
confusion.
When left alone, the two friends at first kept an embarrassed silence.
It however became necessary for one of them to break it first, and as
D’Artagnan appeared determined to leave that honor to his companion,
Aramis said, “you see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas.”
“Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentleman said just
now.”
“Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have
often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?”
“Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested.”
“With such things! Oh, D’Artagnan!”