I.

THIS is the story of Odysseus, the most renowned of all the heroes the Greek poets have told us of -of Odysseus, his wars and his wanderings. And this story of Odysseus begins with his son, the youth who was called Telemachus.

It was when Telemachus was a child of a month old that a messenger came from Agamemnon, the Great King, bidding Odysseus betake himself to the war against Troy that the Kings and Princes of Greece were about to wage. The wise Odysseus, foreseeing the disasters that would befall all that entered that war, was loth to go. And so when Agamemnon's messenger came to the island of Ithaka where he was King, Odysseus pretended to be mad. And that the messenger, Palamedes, might believe he was mad indeed, he did a thing that no man ever saw being done before-he took an ass and an ox and yoked them together to the same plough and began to plough a field. And when he had ploughed a furrow he sowed it, not with seeds that would grow, but with salt. When Palamedes saw him doing this he was nearly persuaded that Odysseus was mad. But to test him he took the child Telemachus and laid him down in the field in the way of the plough. Odysseus, when he came near to where the child lay, turned the plough aside and thereby showed that he was not a mad man. Then had he to take King Agamemnon's summons. And Agamemnon's word was that Odysseus should go to Aulis where the ships of the Kings and Princes of Greece were being gathered. But first he was to go into another country to seek the hero Achilles and persuade him also to enter the war against Troy.

And so Odysseus bade good-bye to his infant son, Telemachus, and to his young wife, Penelope, and to his father, old Laertes. And he bade good-bye to his house and his lands and to the island of Ithaka where he was King. He summoned a council of the chief men of Ithaka and commended to their care his wife and his child and all his household, and thereafter he took his sailors and his fighting men with him and he sailed away. The years went by and Odysseus did not return. After ten years the City was taken by the Kings and Princes of Greece and the thread of war was wound up. But still Odysseus did not return. And now minstrels came to Ithaka with word of the deaths or the homecomings of the heroes who had fought in the war against Troy. But no minstrel brought any word of Odysseus, of his death or of his appearance in any land known to men. Ten years more went by. And now that infant son whom he had left behind, Telemachus, had grown up and was a young man of strength and purpose.

II

ONE day, as he sat sad and disconsolate in the house of his father, the youth Telemachus saw a stranger come to the outer gate. There were many in the court outside, but no one went to receive the newcomer. Then, because he would never let a stranger stand at the gate without hurrying out to welcome him, and because, too, he had hopes that some day such a one would bring him tidings of his father, Telemachus rose up from where he was sitting and went down the hall and through the court and to the gate at which the stranger stood.

'Welcome to the house of Odysseus,' said Telemachus giving him his hand. The stranger clasped it with a friendly clasp. 'I thank you, Telemachus,' he said, 'for your welcome, and glad I am to enter the house of your father, the renowned Odysseus.'

The stranger looked like one who would be a captain amongst soldiers. His eyes were grey and clear and shone wonderfully. In his hand he carried a great bronze spear. He and Telemachus went together through the court and into the hall. And when the stranger left his spear within the spearstand Telemachus took him to a high chair and put a footstool under his feet. He had brought him to a place in the hall where the crowd would not come. There were many in the court outside and Telemachus would not have his guest disturbed by questions or clamours. A handmaid brought water for the washing of his hands, and poured it over them from a golden ewer into a silver basin. A polished table was left at his side. Then the house- dame brought wheaten bread and many dainties. Other servants set down dishes of meat with golden cups, and afterwards the maids came into the hall and filled up the cups with wine.

But the servants who waited on Telemachus and his guest were disturbed by the crowd of men who now came into the hall. They seated themselves at tables and shouted out their orders. Great dishes of meat were brought to them and bowls of wine, and the men ate and drank and talked loudly to each other and did not refrain even from staring at the stranger who sat with Telemachus.

'Is there a wedding-feast in the house?' the stranger asked, 'or do the men of your clan meet here to drink with each other ?'

A flush of shame came to the face of Telemachus. ' There is no wedding-feast here,' he said, 'nor do the men of our clan meet here to drink with each other. Listen to me, my guest. Because you look so wise and because you seem so friendly to my father's name I will tell you who these men are and why they trouble this house.'

THEREUPON Telemachus told the stranger how his father had not returned from the war of Troy although it was now ten years since the City was taken by those with whom he went. ' Alas,' Telemachus said, 'he must have died on his way back to us, and I must think that his bones lie under some nameless strait or channelof the ocean. Would he had died in the fight at Troy! Then the Kings and Princes would have made him a burial-mound worthy of his name and his deeds. His memory would have been reverenced amongst men, and I, his son, would have a name, and would not be imposed upon by such men as you see here - men who are feasting and giving orders in my father's house and wasting the substance that he gathered.'

'How come they to be here?' asked the stranger.

Telemachus told him about this also. When seven years had gone by from the fall of Troy and still Odysseus did not return there were those who thought he was dead and would never be seen more in the land of Ithaka. Then many of the young lords of the land wanted Penelope, Telemachus' mother, to marry one of them. They came to the house to woo her for marriage. But she, mourning for the absence of Odysseus and ever hoping that he would return, would give no answer to them. For three years now they were coming to the house of Odysseus to woo the wife whom he had left behind him. ' They want to put my lady-mother between two dread difficulties,' said Telemachus, , either to promise to wed one of them or to see the substance of our house wasted by them. Here they come and eat the bread of our fields, and slay the beasts of our flocks and herds, and drink the wine that in the old days my father laid up, and weary our servants with their orders.'

When he had told him all this Telemachus raised his head and looked at the stranger: ' O my guest,' he said, 'wisdom and power shine out of your eyes. Speak now to me and tell me what I should do to save the house of Odysseus from ruin. And tell me too if you think it possible that my father should still be in life.'

The stranger looked at him with his grey, clear, wonderfully- shining eyes. ' Art thou verily the son of Odysseus ? ' said he.

'Verily, I am the son of Odysseus,' said Telemachus.

'As I look at you,' said the stranger, 'I mark your head and eyes, and I know they are such a head and such eyes as Odysseus had. Well, being the son of such a man, and of such a woman as the lady Penelope, your spirit surely shall find a way of destroying those wooers who would destroy your house.'

' Already,' said Telemachus, , your gaze and your speech make me feel equal to the task of dealing with them.'

'I think,' said the stranger, 'that Odysseus, your father, has not perished from the earth. He may yet win home through labors and perils. But you should seek for tidings of him. Harken to me now and I shall tell you what to do.

' To-morrow summon a council of all the chief men of the land of Ithaka, and stand up in that council and declare that the time has come for the wooers who waste your substance to scatter, each man to his own home. And after the council has been held I would have you voyage to find out tidings of your father, whether he still lives and where he might be. Go to Pylos first, to the home of Nestor, that old King who was with your father in the war of Troy. Beg Nestor to give you whatever tidings he has of Odysseus. And from Pylos go to Sparta, to the home of Menelaus and Helen, and beg tidings of your father from them too. And if you get news of his being alive, return: It will be easy for you then to endure for another year the wasting of your substance by those wooers. But if you learn that your father, the renowned Odysseus, is indeed dead and gone, then come back, and in your own country raise a great funeral mound to his memory, and over it pay all funeral rites. Then let your mother choose a good man to be her husband and let her marry him, knowing for a certainty that Odysseus will never come back to his own house. After that something will remain for you to do: You will have to punish those wooers who destroy the goods your father gathered and who insult his house by their presence. And when all these things have been done, you, Telemachus, will be free to seek out your own fortune: you will rise to fame, for I mark that you are handsome and strong and most likely to be a wise and valiant man. But now I must fare on my journey .'

The stranger rose up from where he sat and went with Telemachus from the hall and through the court and to the outer gate. Telemachus said: 'What you have told me I shall not forget. I know you have spoken out of a wise and a friendly heart, and as a father to his son.'

The stranger clasped his hands and went through the gate. And then, as he looked after him Telemachus saw the stranger change in his form. He became first as a woman, tall, with fair hair and a spear of bronze in her hand. And then the form of a woman changed too. It changed into a great sea-eagle that on wide wings rose up and flew high through the air. Telemachus knew then that his visitor was an immortal and no other than the goddess Athene who had been his father's friend.

Chapter One

First Years

(1786-1793)

The village of Dardilly is set among the low hills that rise in the neighbourhood of Lyons. One of its inhabitants was Pierre Vianney, husband of Marie Charavay. Besides being a prosperous farmer, he was likewise a man of faith,a nd much given tot he practice of the Christian virtue of charity. In July, 1770, the fame of shig ood works brought to hsi door a mendicant who was also a saint.

Tortured by scruples, Benoit Labre had just left the Trappist monastery of Sept-Fonds, where had been a novice under the name of Brother Urban. He had now acquired a certainty that his vocation was to be a wayfarer for the remainder of his life, so he set out for Rome. His first halt was Paray-le-Monial, where he paid long visits to the chapel fo the Apparitions. From Paray he journeyed to Lyons, but rather than etner the city at nightfall he chose to spend the night at Dardilly. On observing a number of poor persons going to the house of Pierre Vianney, he went along with them.

Benoit Labre was strangely attired. He wore the novice's tunic, which he had been permitted to retain on leaving the monastery. A wallet was suspended from his shoulders, a rosary hung round his neck, and a brass crucifix shone on his breast. A breviary, an Imitation, and the book of the gospels constituted his luggage.

In these weird accoutrements he entered the small enclosure in front of the low-roofed house of the Vianneys. the master of the house received him as he received all destitute persons. The children gazed with pity as the hapless man in whom their parents had taught them to see Jesus Christ himself. Matthieu, one of the five boys, was there. little did he guess. Little did he guess, as he contemplated this youthful mendicant, so pale and so meek, who was telling his beads all the time, that oen day he hismelf would be the father of a saint. In the vast kitchen, near the hearth, where, sixteen years later, the child of predestination would warm his little bare feet, Benoit Labre and his companions in distress sat down with the Vianneys before plates of steaming soup, followed by meat and vegetables. Afer grace and night prayers, the guests were shown a place over the bakehouse, where they were to sleep, and where a thick layer of straw was to be their bed. On the morrow, ere they departed, one and all thanks their hosts, but the refined, gentle youth expressed his gratitude in terms which plainly showed that he was no common beggar.

Great was the surprise of Pierre Vianney when, a little later, he received a letter from the poor pilgrim. Benoit Labre wrote but seldom; the hospitality of Dardilly must have touched him deeply; perhaps God had vouchsafed to give him a presentiment of the child of benediction, who was one day to shed undying lustre upon this house.

Eight years after htis event, on February 11, 1778, at Ecully, a village barely a league from Dardilly, Mattieu Vianney married Marie Beluse. If Matthieu was a good Christian, so also was his young wife, who brought him as the most precious of dowries a keen and enlightened faith.

Their union was blessed by God. They had six children, all of whom, as was the touching customf o the time, were consecrated to our Lady even before their birth. The children's names were: Catherine, who married at an early age and died shortly after her marriage; Jeanne-Marie, who departed to a better world when about five years old; Francois, the heir to the ancestral home; Jean-Marie, now scarcely known by any other name than that of "The Curé of d'Ars"; Marguerite, the only one of the six to survive, and that by several years, her holy brother; lastly, another Francois, called Cadet, who, on joining the army, left Dardilly never again to return.

Jean_Marie was born about midnight on May 8, 1786, and baptized that same day. His godfather and godmother were an uncle and aunt - namely, Jean-Marie Vianney, a younger brother of his father, and his wife Francoise Martinon. The godfather, without looking further afield, was content simply to give his own name to his godson.

So soon as the last comer, a favourite apparently from the start, began to notice things, his mother took pleasure in pointing out to him the crucifix and the pious pictures that adorned the rooms of the farmhouse. When the little arms became strong enough to move with some ease, she guided the tiny hand from teh fore head to the breast and from the breast to the shoulders. The child soon grew into the habit of doing this, so that one day - he was then about fifteen months old - his mother having forgotten to help him to make the sign of the cross before giving him his food, the little one refused to open his mouth, at the same time vigorously shaking his head. Marie Vianney guessed what he meant, and soon as she had helped the tiny hand the pursed-up lips opened spontaneously.

Are we to conclude that even from the cradle Jean-Marie Vianney gave unequivocal proofs of future holiness, such as we read of in the lives of St. Raymond Nonnatus, St. Cajetan, St. Alphonsus Liguori, St. Rose of Lima and so many others? Not one of the existing documents suggests such a phenomenon. However, in all that had to do with religion he was a precocious child, and resopnded much more readily than his brothers and sisters to the solicitude of his admirable mother. His was one of those dispositions that are easily directed towards God. From the age of eighteen months, when the family met for night prayers, he would, of his own accord, kneel down with them - maybe merely from natural imitativeness - and he knew quite well how to join his little hands in prayer.

Prayers ended, his pious mother put h im to bed, and, before a final embrace, she bent over him, talking to him of Jesus, of Mary, of his Guardian Angel. In this way did the fond mother lull the child to sleep.

So soon as he could stand on his feet, he was to be found all over the house, though he did not stray far from the threshold, becuase, on the far side of the yard in the direction of the garden, there was a deep trough where the cattle used to drink. For this reason Jean-Marie hardly ever left his mother's side, busy as she was; on her part, she began the task of her little son's education whilst doing her housework, teaching him in a manner that could be readily grapsed by his cihldish mind. In this way she taught him the "Our Father" and the "Hail Mary" together with some elementary notions of God and of the soul.

The little one, who was very wide awake for his age, woudl himself ask naive questions. What interested him most was the sweet mystery of our Lord's birth at Bethlehem and the story of the manger and the shepherds.

These familiar talks were sometimes prolonged far into the night. For the sake of hearing the story of the Bible, Jean-Marie was willing to sit up late with his mother and Catherine, the most devout of his sisters. Soemtimes he even knelt on the stone floor, folding his hands and putting them within those of his mother.

In fine weather Matthieu Vianney set out very early for the fields, where his wife and the children came to join him in the course of the morning. Catheirne and the elder Francois walked ahead, stick in hand, driving the sheep and cows. A donkey brought up the rear, carrying on his back Jean-Marie and Marguerite, whose pet name was Gothon. On arriving at the fields, the children played on the sward or tended the grazing flock. Jean-Marie was a bright and lively boy, who could put endless zest into their games. Contrary to the assertion of his first biogrpaher, he was very far from being one of those youthful prodigies who have none of the charm and vivacity of their age. This brown-haired, blue-eyed boy, with his pale copmlexion and expressive countenance, did not lack a certain petulance, even though his piety was far in advance of his years. "He was born with an impetuous nature"; his perfect meekness was the fruit of prolonged and meritorious efforts. But from his tenderest years the sensitive and nervous child studied the art of self-conquest. His mother, fully aware of the power of example, often held him up as a pattern to his brothers and sisters; "See," she would say, when they refused to obey promptly, "Jean-Marie is much more obedient than you; he does at once what he is told."

However, once, at least, there were tears. The boy had a rosary which he greatly prized. Gothon, who was eighteen months younger, took a fancy to her brother's beads, and, of course, wished to get possession of them. It came to a scene between brother and sister; there was screaming, stamping of feet, and even a preliminary skirmish, when suddenly, full of grief, the poor child ran to his mother. Gently, but firmly, she bade him give the beads to Gothon: "Yes, my darling, give them to her for the love of the good God." Jean-Marie, though bathed in tears, immediately surrendered his precious rosary. For a child of four this was surely no mean sacrifice! Instead of petting and fondling the child with a view to drying his tears, his mother gaev him a small wooden statue of our Lady. The rude image had long stood on the mantelpiece of the kitchen chimney, and the little one had often wished to possess it. At last it was his, really his! What joy! "Oh! how I loved that statue," he confessed seventy years later; "neither by day nor by night would I be parted from it. I should not have slept had I not had it beside me in my little bed... the Blessed Virgin was the object of my earliest affetions; I loved her even before I knew her."

Some of his contemporaries, his sister Marguerite in particular, have related how, at the first sound of the Angelus, he was on his knees before anybody else. At other times he might be found in a corner of the house kneeling before the image of our Lady, which he had placed on a chair.

Children do not fall victims to the foolish disease called human respect. Wherever he happened to be, whether at home, in the garden, in the street, Jean-Marie, following the exapmle of hsi mother, was in the habit of "blessing the hour," - that is, so soon as he heard the clock strike the hour, he would cross himself and recite a "Hail Mary," ending with another sign of the cross. A neighbour who one day saw him carry out this practice, remarked to Matthieu Vianney: "I believe that little brown-haired fellow of yours takes me for the devil." When Matthieu related the incident, the boy's mother asked him for an explanation: "I did not know our neighbour was looking," was the reply, "but do we not cross ourselves before and after prayers?"

Some women of the neighbourhood, hearing the child praying aloud, said to his parents: "He knows his litanies well. You will have to make him either a priest or a Brother."

Marie Vianney may not have had any inkling of the wonderful future of her favourite child; none the less, the beauty of his soul was precious in her eyes, and she spared no pains to keep from him the very shadow of sin: "See, mon Jean," she used to say, "if your brothers and sisters were to offend the good God, it would indeed cause me much pain, but I should be far sorrier were you to offend him."

Her Jean-Marie was no ordinary child. Even before the powers of his mind had reached their full development, the privileged child of grace had made the first step out of the common way, for this seems to be the true explanation of the following occurrence.

One evening - he was then about four years old - Jean-Marie left the house unnoticed. As soon as his mother became aware of his absence she called to him by his name, but no answer came. With ever-increasing anxiety she looked for him in the yard, behind the straw rick and the piles of timber. The little one was not to be found. Yet he never failed to answer the very first call. As she proceeded in the direction of the stable where he might be hiding, the distracted mother suddenly remembered with horror that deep pond full of murky water, from which the cattle were wont to drink! But what was her surprise when she beheld the spectacle that now presented itself to her eyes? There, in a corner of the stable, among the cattle peacefully chewing the cud, was her boy on his knees, praying with folded hands before his little statue of our Lady. In an instant she had caught him in her arms, and, pressing him to her heart: "Oh! my darling, you were here!" she cried, in a flood of tears. "Why hide yourself when you want to pray? You know we all say our prayers together."

The child, unable to think of anything but his mother's grief, exclaimed: "Forgive me, maman, I did not think; I will not do it again."

Whilst these homely scenes were being enacted in a small and obscure hamlet, events of an appalling nature had taken place in France. However, neither the pillage of Saint-Lazare and the taking of the Bastille (July 13 and 14, 1789) nor the decree depriving the clergy of their benefices (November 2); nor that which suppressed the monasteries and the vows of religion (February 13, 1790), appear to have affected the good country folk: they were either ill-informed or unable to grasp the significance of these events. Hence, their peace of mind was not perturbed until the day when, by the civil constitution of the clergy, the Revolution threatened their priests and their altars (November 26, 1790).

Mme. Vianney was a woman of "eminent piety." If at all possible, she would go to daily Mass. Catherine, her eldest daughter, accompanied her as a rule, but soon her favourite companion came to be the little four-year-old, whose precocious piety caused him to relish the things of God. Whenever the bells of the church near by announced that Mass was about to be said, Jean-Marie entreated his mother to let him go with her. The request was granted. She placed him before her in the family pew, and explained to him what the priest was doing at the altar. The child soon developed a love for the sacred ceremonies. However, his attention was divided: the embroidered vestment of the celebrant entranced him, whilst he was wholly overocme with admiration for the red cassock and white rochet of the altar boy. He, too, would haev liked to serve at the altar, but how could his frail arms lift that heavy Missal? From time to time he turned to his mother; it was an inspiration merely to see her so absorbed in prayer, and as it were transfigured by an interior fire.

In subsequent years, when people congratulated him on his early love for prayer and the Church, he used to say with many tears: "After God, I owe it to my mother; she was so good! Virtue passes readily from the heart of a mother into that of her children. A child that has the happiness of having a good mother should enver look at her or think of her without tears."

Chapter One

Jean-Marie

Jean-Marie Vianney walked up from the valley where he had settled his sheep for the night. It was beginning to rain. Within the walled-in farmyard on the hilltop the first patters made a sharp, jarring sound.

Jean-Marie ran. He skirted the pond in front of the house, pulling up short on the stoop to kick off his wooden shoes.

The door was open. In the yellow-lit kitchen he could see his mother going about her work. He watched her take some onions from under the cupboard and carry them to the big center table. Her shadow, cast by the fireplace, flickered over the opposite wall--over the dressed sheep hanging there, over a row of fish strung up to dry near the open stairway door.

"You are alone, Mama?" He stepped in.

Madame Vianney turned with a start, fixing him with eyes as soft as the rest of her was rough and ungainly. "So it's you, Jean-Marie." She fairly barked the words. "Yes, I am alone." She seated herself at the table and tackled the onions with a long knife. "Only alone is not the word. I have been deserted."

"Deserted, Mama? How could that be?" Jean-Marie stood by the hinged shelf under the window. The shelf was high. He had to stand on tiptoe to reac the soap lying alongside the washbowl. "When I left this morning, Papa said..."

He got no further. "Papa said!" His mother picked up his words in a mocking shout. "Ah, yes! This was the day your brother and your sisters were to stay home and help with the spring cleaning. That's what your papa told them this morning. But then what happened? Perhaps you can guess."

"No, Mama. What did happen?"

"Our neighbor dropped in, our Monsieur Vincent from down the road. He was on his way to Ecully. And why to Ecully?"

"Why, indeed, Mama?"

"Because there was a herd of cows for sale in Ecully today. That's why. And what kind of cows, Little One? Cows made of gold, to hear M'sieur Vincent tell it." Madame Vianney's shoulders shook, for she was always the first to chuckle at her own wit.

Jean-Marie chuckled too. Cows made of gold indeed! Only Mama could think of anything as delicious as that.

"Ah, yes, of gold!" Madame was still laughing. "And when your father heard about the cows, what did he do?"

"I suppose he wanted to see them too."

"Exactly, Little One. He, too, must go to Ecully. But is he content to go along with M'sieur Vincent? Ah, no. Never! Your brother and your little sisters must go with him. and so...!"

Madame Vianney's tone changed abruptly. Her voice sank to a whisper. Rather it sank to what she thought was a whisper, for no one ever had been able to convince Madame that hers was an unusually loud voice. Even her whisper filled every crack and corner of the big kitchen.

"Ma foi!" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "The racket I make. It is enough to wake the dead."

She leaped to her feet and hurried across the room. Softly, very softly, she closed the stairway door.

Jean-Marie stared at her with suddenly widened eyes. "Mama!" he pointed ceilingward. "We have a guest in the best bedroom?"

Madame Vianney nodded vigorously. "He came before your father left this morning. A little breakfast, then right to bed. He's sleeping still, I daresay. Unless of course, my racket has awakened him, thoughtless creature that I am!"

"Is it another priest, Mama?"

"Yes, Little One."

"I'm glad!"

"Glad!" Madame Vianney sped to the cupboard and grabbed a plate. At the fireplace she fished hunks of bacon out of a blackened pot and ladled them onto the platter. "Glad!" You will not feel glad when you see this one. The man is so tired. Ah, how worn and tired his poor face is!"

She placed the platter, generously filled now, on the center table. "No doubt the poor man is hungry. You will take him his supper."

"Yes, Mama. I shall be happy to."

Taking a yard-long loaf of bread from the cupboard, Madame Vianney laid it on the priest's platter. Then she got a bottle of wine.

"There now!" She turned, facing her son who was still standing at the far side of the table. "Jean-Marie!" Her manner was suddenly stern, almost sad. "Come here."

Hurrying around the table, Jean-Marie stumbled over a low stool. Madame Vianney's hands went to her hips. She leaned back, shaking with silent laughter.

"Jean-Marie!" she cried. "You are the clumsy one. If you were in the biggest field in the world and if there was only one object in the whole field, you would stumble over it. Would you not, my Little One?"

And, Jean-Marie having reached her, she lifted him with her strong hands, kissed him, and planted him on the stone floor again. Then she seated herself on the table bench and motioned to him to sit beside her. "One second before you go," she said. "I have a question to ask you."

"Yes, Mama." He sat down on the bench. Mama's face, he could see, was solemn again. "Jean-Marie!" She spoke softly now. "Whenever a priest stays with us I see you following him around. I see you looking at him with your heart in your eyes."

Madame Vianney paused. She uttered a sigh as sharp and loud as one of her whispers. "Tell me, Little One," she went on, "would you like to be a priest yourself when you grow up?"

Jean-Marie hung his head. For a second he had trouble finding his voice. It seemed to have got lost. "Oh, Mama," he said finally. "I... I... Is it wrong of me, Mama? To have such dreams, I mean?"

Madame Vianney smiled. "My question, Jean-Marie? What do you say to my question? Is it yourwish to become a priest?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Ah!" Madame Vianney looked away, far away. Her next words were directed to herself. "Only eight years old and laready he dreams of becoming a man of God!"

Jean-Marie tugged at her dress. "You have not answered my question, Mama. Is it bad of me - what I wish?"

"No, Jean-Marie." Madame Vianney sighed again. "It is not abd. Only..."

"Only what?"

"Only it is not easy being a priest in France now. You know how it is with our beloved country. Surely Papa has told you."

Jean-Marie nodded. Yes, Papa had told him. He had told him how, shortly before his own birth, bloody strife had torn France in two. The Revolution of 1789, Papa called it, because that's when it had all started. The French people had revolted - some of them, anyhow. They had cut off the head of King Louis the Sixteenth, and of his queen, too.

The new rulers of France, Papa said, were godless men. In Paris they had chased the priests out of Notre Dame Cathedral. They had set up an idol there, an idol they called the Goddess of Reason. Now here in Dardilly, and in all the other towns of France, the churches were closed. Mass was said in remote barns. Priests lived in hiding like that poor, tired man in the best bedroom upstairs. The priests had to go about disguised as carpenters or cooks. If they were caught, they were sent off to be galley slaves on French ships. Sometimes they were sent to a prison camp in a faraway country called Guiana.

"Yes, Mama," he said. "I know how it is."

"Well, then!" Madame Vianney leaped to her feet. "You must think hard before making a decision. You must think hard and pray. Now, off with you. Our holy guest will be starved. But wait..." Madame Vianney snatched an iron oil lamp from the table. She lighted it at the fire and handed it to her son. "There! Can you manage everything?"
"Of course."
Jean-Marie tucked the wine bottle under his arm. He held the platter in one hand, the oil lamp in the other. His mother held the door for him. He could hear it closing softly behind him as he climbed the steep stone stairs.