University of Virginia Library

Chapter XXI.

GRAND DINNER OF THE PRIESTS—THE MANIAC SISTER OF
REV. MR. PERRAS.

IT was the custom in those days, in the Church of Rome, to
give the title of arch-priest to one of the most respectable
and able priests, among twelve or fifteen others, by whom he was
surrounded. That title was the token of some superior power,
which was granted him over his confreres, who, in consequence,
should consult him in certain difficult matters.

As a general thing, those priests lived in the most cordial
and fraternal unity, and to make the bond of that union stronger
and more pleasant, they were, in turn, in the habit of giving a
grand dinner every Thursday.

In 1834 these dinners were really state affairs. Several
days in advance, preparations were made on a grand scale, to
collect everything that could please the tastes of the guests. The
best wines were purchased. The fattest turkeys, chickens, lambs,
or sucking pigs were hunted up. The most delicate pastries
were brought from the city, or made at home, at any cost. The
rarest and most costly fruits and desserts were ordered. There
was a strange emulation among those curates, who would surpass
his neighbors. Several extra hands were engaged some days
before, to help the ordinary servants to prepare the "Grand
Dinner."

The second Thursday of May, 1834, was Mr. Perras' turn,
and at twelve o'clock, noon, we were fifteen priests seated around
the table.

I must here render homage to the sobriety and perfect moral
habits of the Rev. Mr. Perras. Though he took his social glass
of wine, as was the univeral usage at that time, I never saw

GRAND DINNER OF THE PRIESTS.

p. 205

him drink more than a couple of glasses at the same meal. I
wish I could say the same thing of all those who were at this
table that day.

Never did I see, before nor after, a table covered with so
many tempting and delicate viands. The good curate had surpassed
himself, and I would hardly be believed, were I to give
the number of dishes and covers, plates et entreplates, which
loaded the table. I will only mention a splendid salmon, which
was the first brought to Quebec that year, for which Mr. Amiot,
the purveyor of the priests around the capital, had paid twelve
dollars.

There was only one lady at that dinner, Miss Perras, sister
of the curate. However, she was not at all embarrassed by
finding herself alone among those jolly celebataires, and she
looked like a queen at the head of the table. Her sweet and
watchful eyes were everywhere to see the wants of her guests.
She had an amiable word for every one of them. With the
utmost grace she pressed the Rev. Mr. A. to try that wing of
turkey—she was so gently remonstrating with the Rev. Mr. B.
for his not eating more, and she was so eloquent in requesting
them all to taste of this dish, or of that; which was quite a new
thing in Canada. And her young chickens! who could refuse
to accept one of them, after she had told their story: how, three
months before, in view of this happy day, she had so cajoled the
big black hen to watch over sixteen eggs in the kitchen; what
a world of trouble she had, when the little dog was coming in,
and she (the hen) was rushing at him! how, many times, she
had to stop the combatants and force them to live in peace! and
what desolation swept over her mind, when, in a dark night, the
rats had dragged into their holes three of her newly-hatched
chickens! how she had got a cat to destroy the rats; and how
in escaping Scylla, she was thrown upon Charybdis, when three
days after, the cat made his dinner of two of her dear little
chickens; for which crime, committed in open day, before
several witnesses, the sentence of death was passed and executed,
without benefit of clergy.

Now, where would they find young chickens in the month

of May, in the neighborhood of Quebec, when the snow had
scarcely disappeared?

These stories, given with an art which no pen can reproduce,
were not finished before the delicate chickens had disappeared
in the hungry mouths of the cheerful guests.

One of the most remarkable features of these dinners was the
levity, the absolute want of seriousness and gravity. Not a
word was said in my presence, there, which could indicate that
these men had anything else to do in this world but to eat and
drink, tell and hear merry stories, laugh and lead a jolly life.

I was the youngest of those priests. Only a few months
before, I was in the Seminary of Nicolet, learning from my
grave old superior, lessons of priestly life, very different from
what I had there under my eyes. I had not yet forgotten the
austere preaching of self-denial, mortification, austerity and
crucifixion of the flesh, which were to fill up the days of a
priest!

Though, at first, I was pleased with all I saw, heard and
tasted; though I heartily laughed with the rest of the guests,
at their bon mots, their spicy stories about their fair penitents,
or at the funny caricatures they drew of each other, as well as
of absent ones, I felt, by turns, uneasy. Now and then the
lessons of priestly life, received from the lips of my venerable
and dear Mr. Leprohon, were knocking hard at the door of my
conscience. Some words of the Holy Scriptures which, more
than others, had adhered to my memory, were also making a
strange noise in my soul. My own common sense was telling
me that this was not quite the way Christ taught his disciples
to live.

I made a great effort to stifle those troublesome voices.
Sometimes I succeeded, and then I became cheerful; but a
moment after I was overpowered by them, and I felt chilled, as
if I had perceived on the walls of the festive room, the finger of
my angry God, writing, "MENE, MENE, TEKEL UPHARSIN."
Then all my cheerfulness vanished, and I felt so miserable that,
in spite of all my efforts to look happy, the Rev. Mr. Paquette,
curate of St. Gervais, observed it on my face. That priest was

probably the one who most enjoyed everything of that feast.
Under the snowy mantle of sixty-five years, he had kept the
warm heart and the joviality of youth. He was considered one
of our most wealthy curates, and he richly deserved the reputation
of being the most epicurean of them all. He was a perfect
cook, and with his chaplet or his breviarium in hand, he used to
pass a great part of the day in his kitchen, giving orders about
broiling this beefstake, or preparing this fricassee, and that gravy
a la Francais. He was loved by all his confreres, but particularly
by the young priests, who were the objects of his constant
attentions. He had always been exceedingly kind to me, and
when in his neighborhood, I dare say that my most pleasant hours
were those passed in his parsonage.

Looking at me in the very moment when my whole intellectual
being was, in spite of myself, under the darkest cloud,
he said: "My dear little Father Chiniquy, are you falling into
the hands of some blue devils, when we are all so happy? You
were so cheerful half an hour ago! What is the matter with
you now? Are you sick? You look as grave and anxious as
Jonah, when in the big whale's stomach! What is the matter
with you? Has any of your fair penitents left you, to go to
confess to another, lately?"

At these funny questions, the dining-room was shaken with
the convulsive laughter of the priests. I wished I could join in
with the rest of my confreres; for it seemed to me very clear
that I was making a fool of myself by this singularity of
demeanor. But there was no help for it; for a moment before
I had seen that the servant girls had blushed; they had been
scandalized by a very improper word from the lips of a young
priest, about one of his young female penitents; a word which he
would, surely, never have uttered, had he not drank too much
wine. I answered: "I am much obliged to you for your kind
interest. I find myself much honored to be here in your midst; but
as the brightest days are not without clouds, so it is with us all sometimes.
I am young, and without experience; I have not yet learned
to look at certain things in their proper light. When older, I hope
I shall be wiser, and not make an ass of myself as I do to-day."

"Tah! Tah! Tah!" said old Mr. Paquette, "this is not the
hour of dark clouds and blue devils. Be cheerful, as it behooves
your age. There will be hours enough in the rest of your life
for sadness and sombre thoughts. This is the hour for laughing
and being merry. Sad thoughts for to-morrow." And
appealing to all, he asked, "Is not this correct, gentlemen?"

"Yes, yes," unanimously rejoined all the guests.

"Now," said the old priest, "you see that the verdict of the
jury is unanimously in my favor and against you. Give up
those airs of sadness, which do not answer in the presence of
those bottles of champagne. Your gravity is an anachronism
when we have such good wines before us. Tell me the reason
of your grief, and I pledge myself to console you, and make you
happy as you were at the beginning of the dinner."

"I would have liked better that you should have continued
to enjoy this pleasant hour without noticing me," I answered.
"Please excuse me if I do not trouble you with the causes of my
personal folly."

"Well, well," said Mr. Paquette, "I see it; the cause of
your trouble is that we have not yet drank together a single glass
of sherry. Fill your glass with that wine, and it will surely
drown the blue devil, which I see at its bottom."

"With pleasure," I said, "I feel much honored to drink with
you," and I put some drops of wine into my glass. "Oh! oh!
what do I see you doing there? Only a few drops in your glass!
This will not even wet the cloven feet of the blue devil which is
tormenting you. It requires a full glass, an overflowing glass,
to drown and finish him. Fill, then, your glass with that
precious wine—the best I ever tasted in my whole life."

"But I cannot drink more than those few drops," I said.

"Why not?" he replied.

"Because, eight days before her death, my mother wrote
me a letter, requesting me to promise her that I would never
drink more than two glasses of wine at the same meal. I gave
her that promise in my answer, and the very day she got my
pledge, she left this world to convey it, written on her heart,
into heaven, to the feet of her God!"

"Keep that sacred pledge," answered the old curate; "but
tell me why you are so sad when we are so happy?"

"You already know part of my reasons—if I had drank as
much wine as my neighbor, the vicar of St. Gervais, I would
probably have filled the room with my shouts of joy, as he does;
but you see now that the hands of my deceased, though always
dear mother, are on my glass to prevent me from filling it any
more, for I have already drank two glasses of wine."

"But your sadness in such a circumstance is so strange, that
we would all like to know its cause."

"Yes, yes," said all the priests. "You know that we like
you, and we deeply feel for you. Please tell us the reason of
this sadness."

I then answered, "It would be better for me to keep my
own secret, for I know I will make a fool of myself here; but
as you are unanimous in requesting me to give you the
reasons of the mental agony through which I am just passing,
you will have them.

"You well know that, through very singular circumstances,
I have been prevented, till this day, from attending any of your
grand dinners. Twice I had to go to Quebec on these occasions,
sometimes I was not well enough to be present—several times I
was called to visit some dying person, and at other times the
weather, or the roads were too bad to travel; this, then, is the
first grand dinner, attended by you all, that I have the honor of
attending.

"But before going any further, I must tell you that during
the eight months it has been my privilege to sit at Rev. Mr.
Perras' table, I have never seen anything which could make me
suspect that my eyes would see, and my ears would hear such
things in this parsonage as have just taken place. Sobriety,
moderation, truly evangelical temperance in drink and food were
the invariable rule. Never a word was said which could make
our poor servant girls, or the angels of God blush. Would
to God that I had not been here to-day! For I tell you,
honestly, that I am scandalized by the epicurean table which is
before us; by the enormous quantity of delicate viands and

the incredible number of bottles of most costly wines, emptied
at this dinner.

"However, I hope I am mistaken in my appreciation of what
I have seen and heard—I hope you are all right and that I am
wrong. I am the youngest of you all. It is not my business to
teach you, but it is my duty to be taught by you.

"Now, I have given you my mind, because you so pressingly
requested me to do it, as honestly as human language will allow
me to do. I have the right, I hope, to request you to tell me,
as honestly, if I am, and in what I am, wrong or right!"

"Oh! ho! my dear Chiniquy," replied the old curate, "you
hold the stick by the wrong end. Are we not the children of
God?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, "we are the children of God."

"Now, does not a loving father give what he considers the
best part of his goods to his beloved children?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Is not that loving father pleased when he sees his beloved
children eat and drink the good things he has prepared for them?"

"Yes, sir," was my answer.

"Then," rejoined the logical priest, "the more we, the beloved
children of God, eat of these delicate viands, and drink of
those precious wines, which our Heavenly Father puts into our
hands, the more he is pleased with us. The more we, the most
beloved ones of God, are merry and cheerful, the more he is
himself pleased and rejoiced in his heavenly kingdom.

"But if God, our Father, is so pleased with what we have
eaten and drunk to-day, why are you so sad?"

This masterpiece of argumentation was received by all
(except Mr. Perras), with convulsive cries of approbation, and
repeated "bravo! bravo!"

"I was too mean and cowardly to say what I felt. I tried
to conceal my increased sadness under the forced smiles of my
lips, and I followed the whole party, who left the table, and
went to the parlor to drink a cup of coffee. It was then half-past
one p. m. At two o'clock the whole party went to the
church, where, after kneeling for a quarter of an hour before

their wafer God, they fell on their knees at the feet of each other,
to confess their sins, and get their pardon, in the absolution of
their confessors!

At three p. m. they were all gone, and I remained alone with
my venerable old curate Perras. After a few moments of silence,
I said to him: "My dear Mr. Perras, I have no words to express
to you my regret for what I have said at your table. I beg
your pardon for every word of that unfortunate and unbecoming
conversation, into which I was dragged in spite of myself;
you know it. It does not do for a young priest, as I am, to
criticise those whom God has put so much above him by their
science, their age and their virtues. But I was forced to give
my mind, and I have given it. When I requested Mr. Paquette
to tell me in what I might be wrong, I had not the least idea
that we would hear, from the lips of one of our veterans in the
priesthood, the blasphemous jokes he has uttered. Epicurus
himself would have blushed, had he been among us, in hearing
the name of God connected with such deplorable and awful
impieties."

Mr. Perras answered me: "Far from being displeased with
what I have heard from you at this dinner, I must tell you that
you have gained much in my esteem by it. I am, myself,
ashamed of that dinner. We priests are the victims, like the rest
of the world, of the fashions, vanities, pride and lust of that
world against which we are sent to preach. The expenditure
we make at those dinners is surely a crime, in the face of the
misery of the people by whom we are surrounded. This is the
last dinner I give with such foolish extravagance. The next time
my neighbors will meet here, I will not expose them to stagger
on their legs, as the greater part of them did when they rose
from the table. The brave words you have uttered have done
me good. They will do them good also; for though they had
all eaten and drunk too much, they were not so intoxicated as
not to remember what you have said."

Then, pressing my hand in his, he said, "I thank you my
good little Father Chiniquy for the short but excellent sermon
you have given us. It will not be lost. You have drawn my

tears when you have shown us your saintly mother going to the
feet of God in heaven, with your sacred promise written in her
heart. Oh! you must have had a good mother! I knew her
when she was very young. She was then, already, a very
remarkable girl, for her wisdom and the dignity of her manners."

Then he left me alone in the parlor, and he went to visit a
sick man in one of the neighboring houses.

When alone I fell on my knees, to pray and weep. My soul
was filled with emotions which it is impossible to express. The
remembrance of my beloved mother whose blessed name had
fallen from my lips when her sacred memory filled my mind with
the light and strength I needed in that hour of trial—the gluttony
and drunkenness of those priests, whom I was accustomed to respect
and esteem so much—their scandalous conversation—
their lewd expressions—and more than all, their confessions to
each other after two such hours of profanity and drinking, were
more than I could endure. I could not contain myself, I wept
over myself, for I felt also the burden of my sins, and I did not
find myself much better than the rest, though I had not eaten
or drunk quite so much as several of them—I wept over my
friends, whom I had seen so weak; for they were my friends. I
loved them, and I know they loved me. I wept over my church,
which was served by such poor, sinful priests. Yes! I wept
there, when on my knees, to my heart's content, and it did me
good. But my God had another trial in store for his poor unfaithful
servant.

I had not been ten minutes alone, sitting in my study, when
I heard strange cries, and such a noise as if a murderer were at
work to strike his victim. A door had evidently been broken
open, up stairs, and some one was running down stairs as if one
was wanting to break down everything. The cries of "Murder,
murder!" reached my ears, and the cries of "Oh! my God! my
God! where is Mr. Perras?" filled the air.

I quickly ran to the parlor to see what was the matter, and
there I found myself face to face with a woman absolutely naked!
Her long black hair was flowing on her shoulders; her face was
pale as death—her dark eyes fixed in their sockets. She stretched

her hands toward me with a horrible shriek, and before I could
move a step, terrified, and almost paralyzed as I was, she seized
my two arms with her hands, with such a terrible force as if my
arms had been grasped in a vise. My bones were cracking under
her grasp, and my flesh was torn by her nails. I tried to escape,
but it was impossible. I soon found myself as if nailed to the
wall, unable to move any further. I cried then to the utmost
compass of my voice for help. But the living spectre cried still
louder: "You have nothing to fear. Be quiet. I am sent by
God Almighty and the blessed virgin Mary, to give you a message.
The priests whom I have known, without a single excption,
are a band of vipers: they destroy their female penitents
through auricular confession. They have destroyed me, and
killed my female child! Do not follow their example!" Then
she began to sing, with a beautiful voice, to a most touching tune,
a kind of poem she had composed herself, which I secretly got
afterward from one of her servant maids, the translation of which
is as follows:

When she was singing these words, big tears were rolling
down her pale cheeks, and the tone of her voice was so sad that
she could have melted a heart of stone. She had not finished
her song when I cried to the girl: "I am fainting, for God's
sake bring me some water!" The water was only passed to my
lips, I could not drink. I was choked, and petrified in the presence
of that living phantom! I could not dare to touch her in
any way with my hands. I felt horrified and paralyzed at the
sight of that livid, pale, cadaverous, naked spectre. The poor
servant girl had tried in vain, at my request, to drag her away
from me. She had struck her with terror, by crying, "If you
touch me, I will instantly strangle you!"

"Where is Mr. Perras? Where is Mr. Perras and the other
servants? For God's sake call them," I cried out to the servant
girl, who was trembling and beside herself.

"Miss Perras is running to the church after the curate," she
answered, and I do not know where the other girl is gone."

In that instant Mr. Perras entered, rushed toward his sister,
and said, "Are you not ashamed to present yourself naked before
such a gentleman?" and with his strong arms he tried to
force her to give me up.

Turning her face towards him, with tigress eyes, she cried
out, "Wretched brother! what have you done with my child?
I see her blood on your hands!"

When she was struggling with her brother, I made a sudden
and extreme effort to get out of her grasp; and this time I succeeded:
but seeing that she wanted to throw herself again upon
me, I jumped through a window which was opened.

Quick as lightning she passed out of the hands of her brother,
and jumped also through the window to run after me. She
would, surely, have overtaken me; for I had not run two rods,
when I fell headlong, with my feet entangled in my long, black,
priestly robe. Providentially, two strong men, attracted by my
cries, came to my rescue. They wrapped her in a blanket, taken
there by her sister, and brought her back into the upper chambers,
where she remained safely locked, under the guard of two
strong servant maids.

The history of that woman is sad indeed. When in her
priest-brother's house, when young and of great beauty, she was
seduced by her father confessor, and became mother of a female
child, which she loved with a real mother's heart. She determined
to keep it and bring it up. But this did not meet the views
of the curate. One night, while the mother was sleeping, the
child had been taken away from her. The awakening of the unfortunate
mother was terrible. When she understood that
she could never see her child any more, she filled the parsonage
with her cries and lamentations, and, at first, refused to take
any food, in order that she might die. But she soon became a
maniac.

Mr. Perras, too much attached to his sister to send her to a
lunatic asylum, resolved to keep her in his own parsonage, which
was very large. A room in its upper part had been fixed in
such a way that her cries could not be heard, and where she
would have all the comfort possible in her sad circumstances.
Two servant maids were engaged to take care of her. All this
was so well arranged, that I had been eight months in that parsonage,
without even suspecting that there was such an unfortunate
being under the same roof with me. It appears that occasionally,
for many days, her mind was perfectly lucid, when she
passed her time in praying, and singing a kind of poem which
she had composed herself, and which she sang while holding me
in her grasp. In her best moments she had fostered an invincible
hatred for the priests whom she had known. Hearing her
attendants often speak of me, she had, several times, expressed
a desire to see me, which, of course, had been denied
her. Before she had broken her door, and escaped from the
hands of her keeper, she had passed several days in saying that
she had received from God a message for me which she would
deliver, even if she had to pass on the dead bodies of all in the
house.

Unfortunate victim of auricular confession! How many
others could sing the sad words of thy song,