Produced by Karol Pietrzak, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
By MARIE CORELLI
"Thelma," "Ardath," "Innocent," "The Treasure of Heaven," etc.
The Master-Christian.
All the bells were ringing the Angelus. The sun was sinking;—and fromthe many quaint and beautiful grey towers which crown the ancient cityof Rouen, the sacred chime pealed forth melodiously, floating withsweet and variable tone far up into the warm autumnal air. Market womenreturning to their cottage homes after a long day's chaffering disposalof their fruit, vegetable, and flower-wares in the town, paused intheir slow trudge along the dusty road and crossed themselvesdevoutly,—a bargeman, lazily gliding down the river on his flatunwieldly craft, took his pipe from his mouth, lifted his capmechanically, and muttered more from habit than reflection—"SainteMarie, Mere de Dieu, priez pour nous!"—and some children running outof school, came to a sudden standstill, listening and glancing at eachother, as though silently questioning whether they should say the oldchurch-formula among themselves or no? Whether, for example, it mightnot be more foolish than wise to repeat it? Yes;—even though there wasa rumour that the Cardinal-Archbishop of a certain small,half-forgotten, but once historically-famed Cathedral town of Francehad come to visit Rouen that day,—a Cardinal-Archbishop reputed to beso pure of heart and simple in nature, that the people of his far-offand limited diocese regarded him almost as a saint,—would it be rightor reasonable for them, as the secularly educated children of modernProgress, to murmur an "Angelus Domini," while the bells rang? It was adoubtful point;—for the school they attended was a Government one, andprayers were neither taught nor encouraged there, France having for atime put God out of her national institutions. Nevertheless, the gloryof that banished Creator shone in the deepening glow of the splendidheavens,—and—from the silver windings of the Seine which, turningcrimson in the light, looped and garlanded the time-honoured old cityas with festal knots of rosy ribbon, up to the trembling tops of thetall poplar trees fringing the river banks,—the warm radiancepalpitated with a thousand ethereal hues of soft and changeful colour,transfusing all visible things into the misty semblance of some divinedwelling of dreams. Ding-dong—ding dong! The last echo of the lastbell died away upon the air—the last words enunciated by devoutpriests in their cloistered seclusion were said—"In hora mortisnostrae! Amen!"—the market women went on their slow way homeward,—thechildren scampered off in different directions, easily forgetful of theOld-World petition they had thought of, yet left unuttered,—thebargeman and his barge slipped quietly away together down the windingsof the river out of sight;—the silence following the clangour of thechimes was deep and impressive—and the great Sun had all the heaven tohimself as he went down. Through the beautiful rose-window of theCathedral of Notre Dame, he flashed his parting rays, weaving brightpatterns of ruby, gold and amethyst on the worn pavement of the ancientpile which enshrines the tomb of Richard the Lion-Hearted, as also thatof Henry the Second, husband to Catherine de Medicis and lover of thebrilliant Diane de Poitiers,—and one broad beam fell purpling aslantinto the curved and fretted choir-chapel especially dedicated to theVirgin, there lighting up with a warm glow the famous alabaster tombknown