Litchfield enquirer., 1881-06-16
WHOLE NO. 287l

| And with thls news was flashed the story of
 how the Bishop had owed the preservation of
 his life to the fact of his having evinced such
 a sublime courage as had shamed his perse-
 eutors into admiration of him. He had been | put to torture, his limbs had been racked.
 his feet and hands had been thrust into the
 fire, and molten lead had been poured upon him but though these barbarOus crueltieS
 had been carried on for three da ys no recan- l tatlon could be wrung from him, 80 that at
 length his tormenters let him go with his life
 out of sheer wonder and respect. By and by
 ampler details arrived from the pens of news
 paper correspondents at Shanghai, and it ap-
 peared that the catastrophe at Seiho had been
 brought about through the misdoings of the publican Rigobert A party of Chinamen,
 having lost their money over that mans rC''-
 lette table one night, swore that they had been robbed, and commenced destroying the
 furniture of the casino. The publican draw
 ing revolver to protsct his property, there
 had been bloodshed, after which the rioters I set fire to the cassino, and then cry had aris- ,en of i''Down with the Christians :" The | missionaries rushing out to render assistance
 in extinguishing tue fire that had spread 10 I some cottages, were either slaughtered out uf l hand, or taken captive and put to death sub | sequently in tortures. Meanwhile the mur-
 derers, drunk and infuriated. had pursued
 their work of extermination by going from
 house to house and staying all che native con verts who refused to trample on the crucifix.' Some tive hundred men, women and children | had thus dicd confessing their faith and of
 the European residents not one had escap, |,
 save the Bishop. Rgobert, the author of t.s1 | mischief, had perished with the rest.
 | These horrible tidings came to France at 8 l moment when Parisian society had not muci. ! to talk about. It was in 1865; Europe was | quiet, and the Second Empire in it's heyday.
 Society having no wars or political sensations
 to distract it, was in humOr to give it's un- | divided attention to story which made every | Catholic lady thrill as she read it, and which
 drew even from hardened cynics on the Bou!
 evards the confession that the age of dSuu.- ! less martyrs was not gone yet. When 1t WAS
 known that Monsieur Garderoy Gas he waI
 now called) was on his way back to Europe,
 and would probably come to Paris after p"ss-
 ing through Rome, public curiosity was stim-
 ulated in marked degree when it was re- ported at length that the stout-hearted Bish-
 op had actually arrived in Paris, every man
 and woman who had perused the wondrous 1 record of his life became eager to see him | and hear him preach. If such were the sent,
 ments of the public, one may imagine what
 were those of Angele de Rosenheim. Sha
 had spent some days in sickenng sorrow,
 while she thought Henri de Garderoy dead,
 and afterward she had bored, with streaming l eyes and throbbing heart, over the narrative
 of his heroism and endurance. When he IT, l turned to France, she resolved that she must
 see him at any hazard. To be despised nt
 such man was more than she could bear. | If only for his own sake, that he might think l no worse of human nature, as he had known | it, than it actually deserved, she must tell
 him that she had not deserted him for the
 sordd motives which he had imputed to her. 1 After that she would be at peace with her
 self and she would be enabled thenceforI | to see him face to face without fear, and t1 | think of him without sin.
 For some days Angele hesitated as to
 whether she should not relieve herself of her
 hearts burden by seeking an interview with l Henri at once. But she learned that he hu,l
 gone ''e1aretrGite" into the Franciscan monas;-
 tery of Caen, where he had spent the first l years of his monkhood so she was fain tn
 wait until he should return to Paris to preach | his promised course of sermons at NOtre 1 Dame. The Lenten season was approaching
 and it had been arranged that the missionary | Bishop should preach in the cathedral, in aid | of the foreign missions, on every Friday | throughout Lent. But first he was to preach l a Sunday sermon, in the private chapel of the l Tuileries Palace, before the Emperor NapoIe-
 on the Empress ana Court. This was by the l Empresss special desire, and invitations to | the mass and sermon were issued by her
 Majesty's Chamberlain as for Court receH-
 tion. As Senator, the Baron de Rosenheinl
 obtained one for himself and his wife and 1 few days before the solemnity the Minister of
 Pubic Worship, accoSting the Baron in the | Hobbies of the Senate. congratulated him on l the signal manner in which Monseigneur d.
 Garderoy had justified the encomiums which
 M. de Rosenheim had passed upon him, in
 recommending him for bishopric.
 | How high his name stood in mems estinHi. tion, Henri de GarderOy could measure for | himself when he returned to the Franciscan
 monastery. which he had left rather more
 than three years before. Modern monks are
 no fatterers. The mere elevation of their
 old comrade to bishopric would not have
 been sufficient of itself to compel their res- pect; but before the steadfast missionary,
 before the martyr, they bowed down with
 startled loving reverence.
 The old Superior, who had said to him as | parting: 'I have presentiment that shn T l see you again, Euphrasius, knelt down to
 crave his blessing and faltered as he did s.. God be praised that I read your destinies l aright Monseigneur. felt that If your life was spared you would only live to Christ's 1 glory.
 | "Dont call me Monseigneur," said tine Bishop, taking the old mans arm and lead
 ing him away. "Call me son once more, | and conduct me to my old cell"
 "Your cell nobody has occupied it since | you left' said the Superior ''You will tiud | it just as it was. Does it bring back happy | memories to you, my son ?"
 ''Very happy" answered the Bishop with a | sigh. 'Memores as of childhood. My con. | science was almost at rest here at least so 1t | seems to me now"
 AS he uttered these words almost inau,libiy
 the Bishop entered the small cell so bare If l furniture, and sat down at the little table
 where he had spent so many hours in stuuy. l Then it was that the Superior had good full view of his features for the first time and re-
 coied at the alterations which he noticed iI l him. Henri was no longer attired in monk 1 ish habit but in priests black cassock, wiLn l the violet buttons which denoted his rank. | cassock which added to the thinness of Lts appearance He had allowed his hair i., | grow, and it was all gray. One of his haG,!s
 the left-was in sling, the other was cus- cred with black glove which, on being re- | moved, disclosed fingers and palm all scared
 with the marks of scerchng But what affec- l ted the Superior even more than these fearful l traces of physical suffering was look of u. utterable melancholy stamped on the Bi,lI- | ops features. It even seemed to him tha a strange expression, almost as of fright, had l crept into the Bishops eyes. These eyes no | longer had the steadfast. unquavering glance as of yore. The light of youth had gone o,i. of them, nay, it looked almost as if hope ha.i l fled from them too Occasionally they opened wide and gazed for q moment with horror-
 stricken expression into space, then suddenly | closed, as if the vision they saw was too l shocking to be borne.
 'Oh, my son, how you must have snffere,l !'' exclaimed the Superior. clasping his hands ''It is over now," nIuttered the Bishop
 hoarsely. 'sThey are in Heaven now" "They? Your companions, you mean; poor Babolinus and the others. and your litife school children. Yes certainly they're in Heaven"
 ''They died so nobly," murmured the Bish- Op, as if he were speaking to himself "Lt- tie children of six and seven, with their
 mothers, who refused to trample on the cri cifiX to save their lives snn as they ,srr,.