"Here it is, here it is."

"All crumpled ?"

"I-yes-an accident-while studying-while reading-a somewhat abrupt gesture-"

"My dear friend, you are quizzing me. If you tore off this conclusion it is because you have another one."

"No."

"No ?"

66

'No, I tell you, upon the word of”

"Are you going to say on the word of a Jesuit, like your PortRoyal friends?"

"You ought to know that I never jest upon those subjects which religion and my habit order me to respect."

And yet it was somewhat jesuitically, in the Pascalian sense of the word, that Bourdaloue had replied no. Father La Chaise had asked, "have you another?" No, signified "I have not," and this was true; but the question evidently meant, “are you going to write another?" and thus this no approached somewhat to a falsehood. Was it jestingly, or seriously that he had said it? We incline to think that there was a little of both. Then we must not forget the uneasiness in which he was kept by the presence of Claude; he did not in reality exactly know what he was saying.

"I go for no," said the confessor, who had already recommenced reading, this time attentively, line after line.

"But it is admirable, all that!" he cried, after the first few phrases." What talent! what art! How the ideas flow into one another! How well it is brought out! I have reason, however, for consolation—”

He thought he heard a movement at the extremity of the chamber. But hearing nothing further, he resumed, “for consolation; (still reading,) I know, and the whole universe knows as

well-good! good! And who has ever been fitter than he for the kingdom of heaven!—Admirable! Admirable !"

In short, one might have imagined that Father La Chaise knew Claude's letter, and was striving to reverse it from beginning to end.

Bourdaloue was in agonies. He felt that his cause was not so widely separated from that of his companion, that these scandalous commendations might not bring condemnation upon him the author of the eulogy,-in the mind of the minister. What tormented him the most, was the thought of the conclusions to which Claude would probably come, in regard to the principles and tendencies of the Jesuits. So, burning with impatience to cut it short, he was sometimes upon the point of calling to him, sometimes he sought in his mind for some method of supplicating him not to appear, proposing to himself afterwards to excuse to the best of his ability, if not his companion, at least his order.

In the meantime, the Father continued. All that he thought particularly good, he read aloud. When he arrived at that sentence which Claude had called blasphemy, he could no longer contain himself; he was enthusiastic.

And this enthusiasm was sincere. A man of some mind,in the habit of seeking and finding only one of the branches of the oratorical art, in preaching,—every brilliant or dexterous idea seemed to him excellent from that very quality; he troubled himself very little about the principles; still less about the religious and moral effect. In argumentative compositions, he detected with incomparable address the smallest or the best concealed faults; at such times he was again in all his vigor, the late professor of philosophy, the man who had for twenty years attracted all the youth of Lyons to his instructions. In compositions with which feeling had anything to do, he noticed no

thing but the style. A valiant champion of the laws of logic, he generally treated those of religion and morals very lightly. We have already had occasion to remark with how many honorable qualities this laxity was combined in him. "He was of common-place mind," said Saint Simon," but of good disposition. Just, upright, disinterested, polite, modest, very much of a Jesuit, but moderate, and without servility." Voltaire calls him "a mild man, with whom the road to reconciliation was always open;" but it is rare that a conciliatory person has at the same time enough strength never to be so at the expense of those things in which all conciliation is blamable. It is not hypocrites alone who say with Tartufe; "There is a way of arranging matters with heaven."

This language is still oftener that of lukewarmness or of weakness. La Chaise was one of those men who have the misfortune to be vividly impressed neither by good nor evil.

"Perfect, really,-perfect!" he said to Bourdaloue, returning him his manuscript.

"Yes? And yet certain scruples have presented themselves—" "Say rather that they have been presented to you."

"That is not the question. Presented or not, I have them. And if you will-"

"Let us have them-"

“Well,—would I say to the king in private, what I am going to say to him before all his court? Would you say it to him, you?" "A pretty question! Does one ever use the same language in a tête-à-tête as in the pulpit ?"

"No, as far as style goes; but the ideas? Do you what is false in itself, can pass for true in the pulpit ?"

think that

"True! true! Who talks of that? Who is going to examine whether the praises given to the king in public are the exact expression of the truth?"

"And suppose he takes them as truth!"

"My dear brother, you must confess that one would not expect these reflections from him who wrote these two pages here—” Bourdaloue cast down his eyes.

"And who is preparing himself to recite them to-morrow," added La Chaise, in an incredulous and questioning tone. And as Bourdaloue did not reply, he said: “You are not frank with me, it is bad; you will persist in throwing me into perplexity,—it is bad-very bad. In fact you are quite pale—”

He took his hand, and said in the most caressing tone: "Have you reflected well, my dear brother? If you go and talk severely to the king, you exile yourself from the pulpit of Versailles. Would it not be better to remain in his good graces, and keep in your power the means of bringing him afterwards, but gradually and without violence,* to the change which we all desire? Yes, all, for you do not do me the wrong to think that I care more about my garden than the king's salvation. Come, let us discuss the matter. You have a splendid composition there, which will give the greatest pleasure to the king, and the greatest honor to you. It is the last sermon of this Lent-be prudent, and I promise you that you shall preach again next year. Then, do what you choose. Be terrific from the very first sermon. But to-morrow! The day but one before Easter! Once more, I ask, do you think of such a thing? Who will thank you for this great effort of zeal and courage? The court? Doubtful. The king? Still more doubtful. No one, you see, no one—"

The nations are the herbs; the Macerations are the vinegar,— A Jesuit smooths everything."-

Since," adds the author, "a drop of oil always spreads;-Put one Jesuit into a province, and it will soon be full of them."

CHAPTER XV I.

FATHER LA CHAISE STARTLED.-—HE DEPARTS, AND CLAUDE CONTINUES HIS

DICTATION.

“A THUNDERBOLT falling at his feet, could not have produced,— etc."

If this phrase were not so old, and were not to be found in all romances, we should not know a better one to describe the effect of these words upon the reverend father. Stupefied, scared, his eyes immoderately stretched open, wandered from Claude to Bourdaloue, which latter, almost as much confounded as himself, was not very capable of commencing an explanation. Claude was silent. He remained at three paces distant, standing motionless, and still half enveloped in the shadows which obscured two-thirds of the room.

"Who-who is this? Who is this man?" at length asked Father La Chaise.

"It is a-it is my secretary."

"A plague take your secretary! He has given me a fright.” This word fright expired on his lips. Claude had advanced a step or two; the light fell brilliantly upon his severe countenance, and his glance was very little like that of a secretary in the cabinet of his employer.

"Your-your secretary? Monsieur is your secretary?"

"Monsieur," said Claude, "if your conscience were easy in re