The Master-Christian | Page 4

floating with
sweet and variable tone far up into the warm autumnal air. Market
women returning to their cottage homes after a long day's chaffering
disposal of their fruit, vegetable, and flower- wares in the town, paused
in their slow trudge along the dusty road and crossed themselves
devoutly,--a bargeman, lazily gliding down the river on his flat
unwieldly craft, took his pipe from his mouth, lifted his cap
mechanically, and muttered more from habit than reflection--"Sainte
Marie, Mere de Dieu, priez pour nous!"--and some children running out
of school, came to a sudden standstill, listening and glancing at each
other, as though silently questioning whether they should say the old
church-formula among themselves or no? Whether, for example, it
might not be more foolish than wise to repeat it? Yes;--even though
there was a rumour that the Cardinal- Archbishop of a certain small,
half-forgotten, but once historically-famed Cathedral town of France
had come to visit Rouen that day,--a Cardinal-Archbishop reputed to be
so pure of heart and simple in nature, that the people of his far-off and

limited diocese regarded him almost as a saint,--would it be right or
reasonable for them, as the secularly educated children of modern
Progress, to murmur an "Angelus Domini," while the bells rang? It was
a doubtful point;--for the school they attended was a Government one,
and prayers were neither taught nor encouraged there, France having
for a time put God out of her national institutions. Nevertheless, the
glory of that banished Creator shone in the deepening glow of the
splendid heavens,--and--from the silver windings of the Seine which,
turning crimson in the light, looped and garlanded the time-honoured
old city as with festal knots of rosy ribbon, up to the trembling tops of
the tall poplar trees fringing the river banks,--the warm radiance
palpitated with a thousand ethereal hues of soft and changeful colour,
transfusing all visible things into the misty semblance of some divine
dwelling of dreams. Ding-dong--ding dong! The last echo of the last
bell died away upon the air--the last words enunciated by devout priests
in their cloistered seclusion were said--"In hora mortis nostrae!
Amen!"--the market women went on their slow way homeward,--the
children scampered off in different directions, easily forgetful of the
Old-World petition they had thought of, yet left unuttered,--the
bargeman and his barge slipped quietly away together down the
windings of the river out of sight;-- the silence following the clangour
of the chimes was deep and impressive--and the great Sun had all the
heaven to himself as he went down. Through the beautiful rose-window
of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, he flashed his parting rays, weaving
bright patterns of ruby, gold and amethyst on the worn pavement of the
ancient pile which enshrines the tomb of Richard the Lion-Hearted, as
also that of Henry the Second, husband to Catherine de Medicis and
lover of the brilliant Diane de Poitiers,--and one broad beam fell
purpling aslant into the curved and fretted choir-chapel especially
dedicated to the Virgin, there lighting up with a warm glow the famous
alabaster tomb known as "Le Mourant" or "The Dying One." A strange
and awesome piece of sculpture truly, is this same "Mourant"!--
showing, as it does with deft and almost appalling exactitude, the last
convulsion of a strong man's body gripped in the death-agony. No
delicate delineator of shams and conventions was the artist of olden
days whose ruthless chisel shaped these stretched sinews, starting veins,
and swollen eyelids half-closed over the tired eyes!--he must have been

a sculptor of truth,--truth downright and relentless,--truth divested of all
graceful coverings, and nude as the "Dying One" thus realistically
portrayed. Ugly truth too,-- unpleasant to the sight of the worldly and
pleasure-loving tribe who do not care to be reminded of the common
fact that they all, and we all, must die. Yet the late sunshine flowed
very softly on and over the ghastly white, semi-transparent form,
outlining it with as much tender glory as the gracious figure of Mary
Virgin herself, bending with outstretched hands from a grey niche, fine
as a cobweb of old lace on which a few dim jewels are sewn. Very
beautiful, calm and restful at this hour was "Our Lady's Chapel," with
its high, dark intertwisting arches, mutilated statues, and ancient
tattered battle-banners hanging from the black roof and swaying gently
with every little breath of wind. The air, perfumed with incense-odours,
seemed weighted with the memory of prayers and devotional silences,-
-and in the midst of it all, surrounded by the defaced and crumbling
emblems of life and death, and the equally decaying symbols of
immortality, with the splendours of the sinking sun shedding roseate
haloes about him, walked one for whom eternal truths outweighed all
temporal seemings,--Cardinal Felix Bonpre, known favourably, and
sometimes alluded to jestingly