The Priest's Madonna (10 page)

One night, after I had been sleeping for some time, I woke to the sound of my father and Bérenger arguing.

“Your Church is doomed,” Father said to Bérenger, his voice smug with liquor.

“What makes you think that, Edouard?” asked Bérenger calmly.

“The Republic will prevail. When Church and State are finally separated, the Church will sink fast.”

“And why is that?” asked Bérenger

“Who’s going to dole out money voluntarily to an organization that gives them nothing in return?”

I heard my mother rummaging for her slippers and nightcap.

“Nothing?” Bérenger said.

“Empty promises. The worst kind of lies. A fluffy cushion in heaven after you die! Convenient! An IOU, payable only upon death!”

Claude was stirring and Michelle was awake. She leaned over and asked in a whisper, “What’s going on?”

“Shhh,” I said.

Mother descended the stairs, a candle in her hand. “Edouard! Come upstairs this instant!”

But he ignored her. “Tell me, Monsieur
le curé,
” he continued. “Do you believe in God?”

Bérenger’s voice was soft but sure. “Of course.”

“You believe you’re going to be frolicking in the clouds, playing the lute? You’re an educated man, for God’s sake!”

“I believe in eternal life, yes, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Eternal life. What does that mean? Describe it to me!”

“In heaven, we meet God,” Bérenger said with conviction. “As Paul tells us, ‘For now we see through a mirror dimly, but then face to face.’ If I knew what God looked like, Edouard, I would describe him to you with joy. But I don’t yet.”

“How do you know it’s not just darkness, dirt in our nostrils?”

“Because I know the sustaining strength of God’s love. ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.’ ”

“For Christ’s sake,” my father roared, “stop quoting someone else’s words and think for yourself for once!”

“Edouard!” shouted my mother.

“Answer me this, Monsieur
le curé
: What kind of a father would crucify his own son?”

“That’s enough, Edouard!” said my mother, and this time the ominous tone of her voice must have caught his attention, for a moment later I heard my father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. I lay down and turned my back toward the door, as did Michelle and Claude, and we were motionless as my father undressed and climbed into bed. Within moments, he was snoring. Downstairs, my mother apologized tearfully to Bérenger. “It tortures him, it does,” she said. “He wants to come back to the Church, he wants to believe, but he won’t let himself. It’s the men at the tavern. If they ever knew he was going to church, he’d never hear the end of it.”

“They’re the same as he is, Isabelle. They’re just the same. Too scared to face the truth.”

“I’ll pray for him, for all of them.”

They went on like this for some time. I stopped listening after a while. My father’s question rang in my ears. What kind of a father indeed? I lifted my pillow and took out the Marian thistle Bérenger had given me on our walk weeks earlier, now half-dried and crushed flat. It smelled faintly of decay. I lay back, holding it, but I could not sleep, even after my mother returned to bed and all was quiet. When I finally drifted off, in the early hours of the morning, I dreamt of vast empty spaces, scorched ground stretching into eternity.

O
N THE DAY of the election—a Sunday, as was customary—people gathered early in front of the church and stood in factions, whispering, exchanging glares and jibes. An election offered some sport, and the village loved it almost as much as the occasional running of the bulls in Espéraza: the suspense, the antagonism, the anticipation of a sweet and bloody victory. Everyone wanted to hear the Church’s word on the subject; it was another element in the drama. Even Mme Laporte came that morning, her hand on the mayor’s arm. She wore a round hat fixed with a swatch of tulle that dipped over her eyes; her graying hair, usually straying from an unkempt twist, was well brushed and neatly arranged in a chignon at the nape of her neck. I gaped at her; she smiled discreetly and nodded her head in greeting.

No one knew for sure what Bérenger would say that morning. Normally, he followed the missal scrupulously and did not often preach about politics or public affairs. Nevertheless, we all knew his political position: he wanted the monarchy to be restored and Catholic power to be reinstated as the State’s intimate ally.

Dread overcame me when he stepped up to the pulpit, for his expression was rigid, his jaw set, his eyes as hard and evasive as they had been the day he recited the story of Baal and the prophets. It seemed as though he was afraid to look at anyone for fear they might try to change his mind.

“Today is a moment of truth for our nation,” he began, “our
département,
our village. Today we will see whether religion and divine law will be upheld in France, or whether God himself will be tossed aside like a rotten vine.

“Since the fall of Sedan, the republican parliament has steadily looted its own spiritual inheritance and the inheritance of its children. We have seen the secularization of our schools and the Lord’s Day profaned. We have seen the legalization of divorce, a practice condemned by Our Savior Jesus Christ. These laws and practices, handed down to us over the centuries, inscribed in our Holy Scripture, have been cast aside by Jules Ferry and this provisional Republic, which, may I remind you, was created as a temporary solution. The majority of Frenchmen do not want a parliamentary government. They have been living with it until the proper monarch is ready to step forward. The majority of Frenchmen want the reinstitution of stability and righteous governance: they want a new king.

“We need leaders in this country, true, honorable leaders! Our world is changing. It is evident to us even here, in our remote village. The factories are taking men away from the fields, women away from their homes, children away from their schools and games. True, they provide a welcome income, but they threaten the souls of our children. Our young ones leave home too early, before daybreak, and spend their days in dank, dusty interiors, under improper supervision.

“And it is not only in the factories, my faithful ones. No, this corruption is happening here in Rennes-le-Château itself. The most innocent among us, those whom we are counseled by Christ to emulate in the purity of their faith, these very children are losing their faith.”

At these words, my heart quickened, for I knew he was speaking of me.

“What kind of a world are we living in when our cherished innocents are questioning the Word of God? When even our youth can conceive of a world without the Creator, a world governed only by humans and the ruthless forces of Nature? Are we intent on raising nihilists? Only the Church can save our children from the desolation of faithlessness. Do not slander the Church in your homes”—this directed toward my Father—“do not allow the blessed bride of Christ to be spoken of as a whore in your kitchens or in the tavern or the streets. If you harbor such thoughts yourself, repent, for you do not know the day of your death. If you have tainted the name of the Lord, if you have sown doubt among his people, I beg you, repent, or you will spend the rest of eternity in the devil’s house, paying for your sins with your own flesh and blood.”

The church was silent, stunned. The chilly air of the sanctuary seemed to vibrate with the strength of his words. He began again, this time in a softer, more compassionate voice, “But for those who open their hearts and accept the love that our God has offered us in the gift of his only Son, a heaven awaits, more blessed than anything we can conceive of with our meager imaginations. Yes, my friends, believe it—you will see God in heaven.

“Our country faces a moment of adversity. Its citizens are turning away from God, replacing devout leaders with secular ones, repealing laws that have long been in place to ensure the proper education of our children. So the ballot poll today is a solemn moment indeed. We will either triumph in support of our Church and our God or descend another step on the ladder of secularization toward the devil’s house. We must vote in support of the Union of the Right, my friends, in support of the restoration of the monarchy and the restoration of the Church to its rightful partnership in the governance of the people. Repent and pray, pray to the Holy Virgin, that we may yet see our countrymen and our brothers in Christ once again walking the path of righteousness.”

We sang the Creed, then took communion in a shocked silence. After Mass, people filed out of the church and went immediately home. The village was quiet that day, but the polls were well attended. Bérenger’s sermon had a strange effect, for though it infuriated many, including my father, who did not speak to Bérenger for the rest of the week and who blamed him for Durier’s loss and the gains the rightists made across the country, it impressed people. It may even have changed several minds. Everyone liked a powerful sermon, everyone liked a priest who spoke his mind and really
said
something. People respected passion; it meant you had a heart, a soul. Bérenger had already won the hearts of most of the women through his magnetism and his pastoral visits, but his sermon won him the esteem of the men as well, both monarchists and republicans, once they got over their anger. They seemed to defer more to him after that Sunday.

For my part, I was deeply disturbed. I hated his threats of damnation, his condemnation of those who might have disagreed. I was furious at him for using my private doubts as material for his sermon, and not only using them, but misrepresenting them: he had implicitly and unfairly accused me of atheism. I had never questioned the existence of God—not in his presence, nor even privately. It was only the actions of the Church I had objected to. But these things—the doctrine of the Church and the presence of God—were so linked in Bérenger’s mind, so dependent upon each other, that to question one meant to question—and, by extension, deny—the other.

Once again he had betrayed me, revealing himself to be someone other than the man I thought he was, a man I could not love. I resolved to put him out of my mind, to cultivate another obsession. I asked Michelle who she thought might make me a good husband, and she joyfully listed the names of several boys in our village.

“Martin is dull,” I replied.

“But he’s reliable. And sweet.”

“And how could you think that I would ever love Arnaud? He probably has pimples on his tongue.”

“Marie. That’s unkind. And anyway, they’ll go away in a few years. He’s sort of handsome, underneath all that.”

We did not speak of the sermon at home. Bérenger deferred to my father’s rage, and behaved humbly. He made an effort to uphold civility, greeting everyone politely, speaking with my mother as if all was well. Suppers together were silent. I refused to meet his eyes.

One night, my mother declared that she couldn’t sit through another evening of my father’s black mood, and if he was so determined to sulk, then he should go do it somewhere else. My father, evidently hurt, set down his fork and stood. “Mother,” Claude coaxed, but my mother glared him into silence.

“Politics has no place at our table,” she insisted.

I, in turn, glared at Bérenger, who was responsible for this disruption. He sat next to me. The color had risen in his face, and despite myself, I felt my own cheeks warming in sympathy. He looked mortified. As my father donned his jacket, Bérenger stood, gripping his napkin. “Edouard. Please consider my point of view. I have an obligation to express the views of the Church. Grant me that, anyway.”

My father pulled his cap on his head, and left, the door slamming behind him.

“Edouard!” Bérenger called after him.

“Let him sulk. He’ll get over it soon enough,” said my mother.

“But what if the Church is wrong?” I blurted out.

“Don’t you start, Marie,” my mother said.

“I don’t believe the Church to be wrong in this case,” Bérenger said.

“When do you ever believe the Church to be wrong?” I asked. Claude was staring at me gleefully, entertained by my audacity. Michelle looked anxious.

“In the past. Certainly. On occasion.”

“Such as?”

“Marie, don’t be impudent,” said my mother.

“I can’t think of anything at the moment,” Bérenger said, stabbing his fork into a piece of meat, as if to change the topic.

“I can,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t think you really believe that. That the Church has made mistakes. I think you believe it’s infallible.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Michelle offered, in an effort to lighten the tone of the conversation, to make it an intellectual exercise. But argument was not her forte. “The Pope is anyway,” she added, unconvincingly.

“How would you know if the Church made a mistake?” I continued. “You seem so intent on defending it, how would you be able to tell if it overstepped its bounds, if it did something indefensible?”

“Marie,” my mother warned. “You will not speak that way to Monsieur
le curé.
”