The book brought out (it was never changed, but when finished,
recommenced) was a venerable volume, old as the hills--grey as the
Hotel de Ville.
I would have given two francs for the chance of getting that book once
into my bands, turning over the sacred yellow leaves, ascertaining the
title, and perusing with my own eyes the enormous figments which, as
an unworthy heretic, it was only permitted me to drink in with my
bewildered ears. This book contained legends of the saints. Good God!
(I speak the words reverently) what legends they were. What
gasconading rascals those saints must have been, if they first boasted
these exploits or invented these miracles. These legends, however,
were no more than monkish extravagances, over which one laughed
inwardly; there were, besides, priestly matters, and the priestcraft
of the book was far worse than its monkery. The ears burned on each
side of my head as I listened, perforce, to tales of moral martyrdom
inflicted by Rome; the dread boasts of confessors, who had wickedly
abused their office, trampling to deep degradation high-born ladies,
making of countesses and princesses the most tormented slaves under
the sun. Stories like that of Conrad and Elizabeth of Hungary,
recurred again and again, with all its dreadful viciousness, sickening
tyranny and black impiety: tales that were nightmares of oppression,
privation, and agony.
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