“Oh, thou who burn’st in heart for those who burn In Hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn; How long be crying—‘Mercy on them.’ God! Why, who art thou to teach and He to learn?”
In the Church of St. Barnabé vespers were over; the clergy left the altar; the little choirboys flocked across the chancel and settled in the stalls. A Suisse in rich uniform marched down the south aisle, sounding his staff at every fourth step on the stone pavement; behind him came that eloquent preacher and good man, Monseigneur C⸺.
My chair was near the chancel rail, I now turned toward the west end of the church. The other people between the altar and the pulpit turned too.
There was a little scraping and rustling while the congregation seated itself again; the preacher mounted the pulpit stairs, and the organ voluntary ceased.
I had always found the organ-playing at St. Barnabé highly interesting. Learned and scientific it was, too much so for my small knowledge, but expressing a vivid if cold intelligence. Moreover, it possessed the French quality of taste: taste reigned supreme, self-controlled, dignified and reticent.
Today, however, from the first chord I had felt a change for the worse, a sinister change. During vespers it had been chiefly the chancel organ which supported the beautiful choir, but now and again, quite wantonly as it seemed,