Penguin Island — 43 Bk6 Ch5 - The Reverand Fathers Agaric and Cornemuse

V. THE REVEREND FATHERS AGARIC AND CORNEMUSE

Colomban bore with meekness and surprise the weight of the general reprobation.

He could not go out without being stoned, so he did not go out.

He remained in his study with a superb obstinacy, writing new memoranda in favour of the encaged innocent.

In the mean time among the few readers that he found, some, about a dozen, were struck by his reasons and began to doubt Pyrot’s guilt.

They broached the subject to their friends and endeavoured to spread the light that had arisen in their minds.

One of them was a friend of Robin Mielleux and confided to him his perplexities, with the result that he was no longer received by that Minister.

Another demanded explanations in an open letter to the Minister of War.

A third published a terrible pamphlet.

The latter, whose name was Kerdanic, was a formidable controversialist.

The public was unmoved.

It was said that these defenders of the traitor had been bribed by the rich Jews; they were stigmatized by the name of Pyrotists and the patriots swore to exterminate them.

There were only a thousand or twelve hundred Pyrotists in the whole vast Republic, but it was believed that they were everywhere.

People were afraid of finding them in the promenades, at meetings, at receptions, in fashionable drawing-rooms, at the dinner-table, even in the conjugal couch.

One half of the population was suspected by the other half.

The discord set all Alca on fire.

In the mean time Father Agaric, who managed his big school for young nobles, followed events with anxious attention.

The misfortunes of the Penguin Church had not disheartened him.

He remained faithful to Prince Crucho and preserved the hope of restoring the heir of the Draconides to the Penguin throne.

It appeared to him that the events that were happening or about to happen in the country, the state of mind of which they were at once the effect and the cause, and the troubles that necessarily resulted from them might—if they were directed, guided, and led by the profound wisdom of a monk—overthrow the Republic and incline the Penguins to restore Prince Crucho, from whose piety the faithful hoped for so much solace.

Wearing his huge black hat, the brims of which looked like the wings of Night, he walked through the Wood of Conils towards the factory where his venerable friend, Father Cornemuse, distilled the hygienic St. Orberosian liqueur.

The good monk’s industry, so cruelly affected in the time of Emiral Chatillon, was being restored from its ruins.

One heard goods trains rumbling through the Wood and one saw in the sheds hundreds of orphans clothed in blue, packing bottles and nailing up cases.

Agaric found the venerable Cornemuse standing before his stoves and surrounded by his retorts.

The shining pupils of the old man’s eyes had again become as rubies, his skull shone with its former elaborate and careful polish.

Agaric first congratulated the pious distiller on the restored activity of his laboratories and workshops.

“Business is recovering.

I thank God for it,” answered the old man of Conils.

“Alas!

it had fallen into a bad state, Brother Agaric.

You saw the desolation of this establishment.

I need say no more.”

Agaric turned away his head.

“The St. Orberosian liqueur,” continued Cornemuse, “is making fresh conquests.

But none the less my industry remains uncertain and precarious.

The laws of ruin and desolation that struck it have not been abrogated, they have only been suspended.”

And the monk of Conils lifted his ruby eyes to heaven.

Agaric put his hand on his shoulder.

“What a sight, Cornemuse, does unhappy Penguinia present to us!

Everywhere disobedience, independence, liberty!

We see the proud, the haughty, the men of revolt rising up.

After having braved the Divine laws they now rear themselves against human laws, so true is it that in order to be a good citizen a man must be a good Christian.

Colomban is trying to imitate Satan.

Numerous criminals are following his fatal example.

They want, in their rage, to put aside all checks, to throw off all yokes, to free themselves from the most sacred bonds, to escape from the most salutary restraints.

They strike their country to make it obey them.

But they will be overcome by the weight of public animadversion, vituperation, indignation, fury, execration, and abomination.

That is the abyss to which they have been led by atheism, free thought, and the monstrous claim to judge for themselves and to form their own opinions.”

“Doubtless, doubtless,” replied Father Cornemuse, shaking his head, “but I confess that the care of distilling these simples has prevented me from following public affairs.

I only know that people are talking a great deal about a man called Pyrot.

Some maintain that he is guilty, others affirm that he is innocent, but I do not clearly understand the motives that drive both parties to mix themselves up in a business that concerns neither of them.”

The pious Agaric asked eagerly: “You do not doubt Pyrot’s guilt?”

“I cannot doubt it, dear Agaric,” answered the monk of Conils.

“That would be contrary to the laws of my country which we ought to respect as long as they are not opposed to the Divine laws.

Pyrot is guilty, for he has been convicted.

As to saying more for or against his guilt, that would be to erect my own authority against that of the judges, a thing which I will take good care not to do.

Besides, it is useless, for Pyrot has been convicted.

If he has not been convicted because he is guilty, he is guilty because he has been convicted; it comes to the same thing.

I believe in his guilt as every good citizen ought to believe in it; and I will believe in it as long as the established jurisdiction will order me to believe in it, for it is not for a private person but for a judge to proclaim the innocence of a convicted person.

Human justice is venerable even in the errors inherent in its fallible and limited nature.

These errors are never irreparable; if the judges do not repair them on earth, God will repair them in Heaven.

Besides I have great confidence in general Greatauk, who, though he certainly does not look it, seems to me to be an abler man than all those who are attacking him.”

“Dearest Cornemuse,” cried the pious Agaric, “the Pyrot affair, if pushed to the point whither we can lead it by the help of God and the necessary funds, will produce the greatest benefits.

It will lay bare the vices of this Anti-Christian Republic and will incline the Penguins to restore the throne of the Draconides and the prerogatives of the Church.

But to do that it is necessary for the people to see the clergy in the front rank of its defenders.

Let us march against the enemies of the army, against those who insult our heroes, and everybody will follow us.”

“Everybody will be too many,” murmured the monk of Conils, shaking his head.

“I see that the Penguins want to quarrel.

If we mix ourselves up in their quarrel they will become reconciled at our expense and we shall have to pay the cost of the war.

That is why, if you are guided by me, dear Agaric, you will not engage the Church in this adventure.”

“You know my energy; you know my prudence.

I will compromise nothing.

Dear Cornemuse, I only want from you the funds necessary for us to begin the campaign.”

For a long time Cornemuse refused to bear the expenses of what he thought was a fatal enterprise.

Agaric was in turn pathetic and terrible.

At last, yielding to his prayers and threats, Cornemuse, with banging head and swinging arms, went to the austere cell that concealed his evangelical poverty.

In the whitewashed wall under a branch of blessed box, there was fixed a safe.

He opened it, and with a sigh took out a bundle of bills which, with hesitating hands, he gave to the pious Agaric.

“Do not doubt it, dear Cornemuse,” said the latter, thrusting the papers into the pocket of his overcoat, “this Pyrot affair has been sent us by God for the glory and exaltation of the Church of Penguinia.”

“I pray that you may be right!” sighed the monk of Conils.

And, left alone in his laboratory, he gazed, through his exquisite eyes, with an ineffable sadness at his stoves and his retorts.