I do not force the belief upon you. Every man is free to strive in his religious aspirations after his own ideal of the relations between the Creator and the creature. The freedom to do so is the most priceless attribute of the soul, the sublimest right of human conscience."
"There is no religion in the world beside the Catholic religion, the revealed religion," put in Hervé in a sharp voice. "All other belief is false—"
"My friend," said Christian interrupting his son, "I do not wish to enter into a theological discussion with you. You have of late lost your former happy disposition, you seem to mistrust us, you grow more and more reserved and taciturn, your absences from the printing shop are becoming frequent and are prolonged beyond all measure; your nature, once so pleasant and buoyant, has become irritable and sour, even to the point of rudeness towards your brother Odelin before his departure for Milan. Besides that and since, your asperity towards your sister is ever more marked—and yet you know that she loves you dearly."
At these last words a thrill ran over Hervé's frame. At the mention of his sister, his physiognomy grew more intensely somber and assumed an undefinable expression. For a moment he remained silent, whereupon his voice, that sounded sharp and positive shortly before in his answers regarding religious matters, became unsteady as he stammered:
"At times I am subject to fits of bad humor that I pray God to free me of. If—I have been—rude—to my sister—it is without meaning to. I entertain a strong affection for her."
"We are certain of that, my child," Bridget replied; "your father only mentions the circumstance as one of the symptoms of the change that we notice in you, and that so much alarms us."
"In short," Christian proceeded, "we regret to see you give up the company of the friends of your childhood, and no longer share the innocent pleasures that become your age."
Hervé's voice, that seemed so much out of his control when his sister Hena was the topic, became again harsh and firm:
"The friends whom I formerly visited are worldly, they are running to perdition; the thoughts that to-day engage me are not theirs."
"You are free to choose your connections, my friend, provided they be honorable. I see you have become an intimate friend of Fra Girard, the Franciscan monk—"
"God sent him across my path—he is a saint! His place is marked in paradise."
"I shall not dispute the sanctity of Fra Girard; he is said to be a man of probity, and I believe it. I must admit, however, that I would have preferred to see you form some other friendship; the monk is several years your senior; you seem to have a blind faith in him; I fear lest the fervor of his zeal may render you intolerant, and lead you to share his own excessive religious exaltation. For all that, I never reproached you for your intimacy with Fra Girard—"
"Despite anything that you could have done or said, father, I would have seen to my own salvation. God before the family."
"And do you imagine, my son, that we could be opposed to your welfare?" asked Bridget in an accent of affectionate reproach. "Do you not know how much we love you? Are not all our thoughts dictated by our attachment to you? Can you doubt our affection?"
"Happiness lies in the faith, and the faith comes to us from heaven. There is no welfare outside of the bosom of the Church."
"It would have become you better to answer your mother's kind words with other terms," observed Christian, as he saw his wife hurt and saddened by the harshness of Hervé's words. "If your faith comes from heaven, filial love also is a celestial sentiment; may God forfend that it be weakened in your heart—in fine, may God forfend that Fra Girard's influence over you should tend to pervert, despite himself and despite yourself, your sense of right and wrong."
"I do not understand you, father."
The artisan cast a significant look at Bridget, who, guessing her husband's secret thoughts, felt assailed by mortal anguish.
"I shall explain myself more clearly," Christian continued. "Do you remember a few days ago at the shop when some of our fellow workmen expressed indignation at the traffic in indulgences?"
"Yes, father; and I withered the blasphemous utterances with the contempt that they deserved. Indulgences open the gates of heaven."
"One of our fellow workingmen loudly likened the commerce in indulgences to a theft," Christian proceeded, unable completely to overcome his emotion, while Bridget in vain sought to catch the eyes of her son, who, from the start of this conversation held his eyes nailed to the floor. "Upon hearing so severe an opinion expressed upon the indulgences," Christian added, "you, my son, shouted that all money, even if it proceeded from theft, became holy if devoted to pious works; you said so, did you not? You thereby justified a reprehensible action."
"It is my conviction."
After a momentary silence the artisan again resumed:
"My boy, you were surely awakened to-night, as we ourselves were, by the noise of the procession. It was the procession of indulgences."
"Yes, father—and in order to render my prayers for the deliverance of the souls in purgatory more efficacious, I macerated myself."
"The monks claim that the souls in purgatory can be ransomed by money; do they not make the claim?"
"It is the doctrine of the Catholic Church, father. The Church can not err."
"Hervé, let me suppose that you find on the street a purse full of gold; would you believe yourself justified to dispose of it in behalf of the souls in purgatory, without first inquiring after the rightful owner of the purse?"
"I would not hesitate a minute to do what you said. I would take it to the Church."
Christian and Bridget exchanged looks of distress at this answer. Their suspicions were almost confirmed. They now counted at least with Hervé's frankness. Convinced that all means were legitimate in order to compass the salvation of souls in pain, he would assuredly admit the theft. The artisan proceeded:
"My son, we never set you the example of duplicity. Particularly at this moment when we must appeal to your frankness, we shall speak without circumlocution. I have this to say to you: The fruits of your mother's laborious savings and my own have been recently purloined; the sum amounted to twenty gold crowns."
Hervé remained impassable and silent.
"The theft was committed yesterday or the day before," pursued Christian, painfully affected by his son's impassiveness. "The money was deposited in the case in our bedroom, and could have been taken away by none except a person familiar in our house."
With his hands crossed over his knees and his eyes on the floor, Hervé remained silent, impenetrable.
"Your mother and I first cudgeled our brains to ascertain who could have committed the guilty act," Christian proceeded, driving the point nearer and nearer home, and he added slowly, accentuating these last words: "It then occurred to us that, seeing the theft was justifiable by your convictions—that is to say, that it was legitimate if committed for the sake of some pious work—you might—in a moment of mental aberration—have appropriated the sum for the purpose of consecrating it to the ransoming of souls in purgatory."
The husband and wife awaited their son's answer with mortal anxiety. Christian watched him closely and observed
