University of Virginia Library

Chapter LI.

INTRIGUES, IMPOSTURES, AND CRIMINAL LIFE OF THE PRIEST
IN BOURBONNAIS—INDIGNATION OF THE BISHOP—THE
PEOPLE IGNOMINIOUSLY TURN OUT THE CRIMINAL PRIEST
FROM THEIR PARISH—FRIGHTFUL SCANDAL—FAITH IN
THE CHURCH OF ROME SERIOUSLY SHAKEN.

"PLEASE accompany me to Bourbonnais; I have to confer
with you and the Rev. Mr. Courjeault, on important
matters," said the bishop, half an hour before leaving St. Anne,
after having blessed the chapel.

"I intended, my lord, to ask your lordship to grant me that
honor, before you offered it," I answered.

Two hours of good driving took us to the parsonage of the
Rev. Mr. Courjeault, who had prepared a sumptuous dinner, to
which several of the principal citizens of Bourbonnais had been
invited.

When all the guests had departed, and the bishop, Mr. Courjeault,
and I, were alone, he drew from his trunk, a bundle of
weekly papers of Montreal, Canada, in which several letters,
very insulting and compromising for the bishop, were published,
signed R. L. C. Showing them to me, he said:

"Mr. Chiniquy, can I know the reason you had for writing
such insulting things against your bishop?"

"My lord," I answered. "I have no words to express my
surprise and indignation, when I read those letters. But, thanks
be to God, I am not the author of those infamous writings. I
would rather have my right hand cut off, than to allow it to pen
such false and perfidious things against you, or any one else."

"Do you assure me that you are not the writer of the letters?
Are you positive in that denegation; and do you know the contents
of these lying communications?" replied the Bishop.

"Yes, my lord, I know the contents of these communications.
I have read them, several times, with supreme disgust and indignation;
and I positively assert that I never wrote a single line of
them."

"Then, can you tell me who did write them?" said the
bishop.

I answered: "Please, my lord, put that question to the Rev.
Mr. Courjeault; he is more able than any one to satisfy your
lordship on that matter."

I looked at Mr. Courjeault with an indignant air, which told
him, that he could not any longer wear the mask, behind which
he had concealed himself, for the last three or four months. The
eyes of the bishop were also turned, and firmly fixed on the
wretched priest.

No! Never had I seen anything so strange, as the countenance
of that guilty man. His face, though usually ugly, suddenly
took a cadaverous appearance; his eyes were fixed on the
floor, as if unable to move.

The only signs of life left in him, were given by his knees,
which were shaking convulsively; and by the big drops of
sweat rolling down his unwashed face; for, I must say here, en
passant, that, with very few exceptions, that priest was the dirtiest
man I ever saw.

The bishop, with unutterable expressions of indignation,
exclaimed:

"Mr. Courjeault; you are the writer of those infamous and
slanderous letters! Three times, you have written, and twice you
told me, verbally, that they were coming from Mr. Chiniquy! I
do not ask you if you are the author of these slanders against me.

"I see it written in your face. You malice against Mr.
Chiniquy, is really diabolical. You wanted to ruin him in my
estimation, as well as in that of his countrymen. And to succeed
the better in that plot, you publish the most egregious falsehoods
against me in the Canadian press, to induce me to denounce
Mr. Chiniquy as an impostor.

"How is it possible that a priest can so completely give himself
to the Devil?"

Addressing me, the bishop said: "Mr. Chiniquy, I beg your
pardon for having believed and repeated, that you were depraved
enough to write those calumnies against your bishop, I was deceived
by that deceitful man.

"I will immediately retract what I have written and said
against you."

Then, addressing Mr. Courjeault he again said:

"The least punishment I can give you is to turn you out of
my diocese, and write to all the Bishops of America, that you are
the vilest priest I ever saw, that they may never give you any
position on this Continent."

These last words had hardly fallen from the lips of the
bishop, when Mr. Courjeault fell on his knees, before me, and
bathing, with his tears, my hands, which he was convulsively
pressing in his, said:

"Dear Mr. Chiniquy, I see the greatness of my iniquity
against you and against our common bishop. For the dear Saviour
Jesus' sake, forgive me. I take God to witness that you
will never have a more devoted friend than I will be. And you,
my lord, allow me to tell you, that I thank God that my malice
and my great sin against both you and Mr. Chiniquy is known
and punished at once. However, in the name of our crucified
Saviour, I ask you to forgive me. God knows that, hereafter,
you will not have a more obedient and devoted priest than I."

It was a most touching spectacle to see the tears, and hear
the sobs of that repentant sinner. I could not contain myself,
nor refrain from tears. They were mingled with those of that
returning stray sheep. I answered:

"Yes, Mr. Courjeault, I forgive you with all my heart, as I
wish my merciful God to forgive me my sins. May the God
who sees your repentance forgive you also!"

Bishop Vandeveld, who was gifted with a most sensitive
and kind nature, was also shedding tears, when I lifted up
Mr. Courjeault to press him to my heart, and to tell him again
with my voice choked with sobs: "I forgive you most sincerely
as I want to be forgiven."

He asked me: "What do you advise me to do? Must I forgive

also? and can I continue to keep him at the head of this
important mission?"

"Yes, my lord. Please forgive and forget the errors of that
dear brother; he has already done so much good to my countrymen
of Bourbonnais. I pledge myself that he will, hereafter,
be one of your best priests."

And the bishop forgave him, after some very appropriate
and paternal advice, admirably mixed with mercy and firmness.

It was then about three o'clock in the afternoon. We separated,
to say our vespers and matins (prayers which took nearly
an hour).

I had just finished reciting them in the garden, when I saw
the Rev. Mr. Courjeault walking from the church towards me,
but his steps were uncertain, as one distracted or half drunk. I
was puzzled at the sight, for he was a strong teetotaler, and I
knew he had no strong drink in the church. He advanced three
or four steps, then retreated. At last, he came very near, but
his face had such an expression of terror and sadness that he was
hardly recognizable. He muttered something that I could not
understand.

"Please repeat your sentence," I said to him, "I did not
understand you."

He then put his hands on his face, and again muttered something.
His voice was drowned in his tears and sobs. Supposing
that he was coming to ask me again to pardon his past malice
and calumnies against me, I felt an unspeakable compassion for
him.

As there were a couple of seats near by, I said to him:

"My dear Mr. Courjeault, come and sit here with me; and
do not think any more of what God Almighty has blotted out
with the blood of His Son. I will never think any more of your
momentary errors. You may look upon me as your most devoted
friend."

"Dear Mr. Chiniquy," he answered, "I have to reveal to you
another dark mystery of my miserable life. Since more than a
year, I have lived with the beadle's daughter as if she were my
wife!

"She has just told me that she is to become a mother in a
few days, and that I have to see to that, and give her $500. She
threatens to denounce me publicly to the bishop and people if I
do not support her and her offspring. Would it not be better
for me to flee away, this night, and go back to France to live in
my own family, and conceal my shame? Sometimes, I am even
tempted to throw myself in the river, to put an end to my miserable
and dishonored existence. Do you think that the bishop
would forgive this new crime, if I threw myself at his feet and
asked pardon? Would he give me some other place in his vast
diocese, where my misfortunes and my sins are not known?
Please tell me what to do."

I remained absolutely stupefied, and did not know what to
answer. Though I had compassion for the unfortunate man, I
must confess that this new development of his hypocrisy and
rascality filled me with an unspeakable horror and disgust. He
had, till then, wrapped himself in such a thick mantle of deception
that many of his people looked upon him as an angel of
purity. His infamies were so well concealed under an exterior
of extreme moral rigidity that several of his parishioners looked
upon him as a saint, whose relics could perform miracles. Not
long before, two young couples, of the best families of Bourbonnais,
having danced in a respectable social gathering, had
been condemned by him, and compelled to ask pardon, publicly,
in the church. This pharisaical rigidity caused the secret vices
of that priest to be still more conspicuous and scandalous. I felt
that the scandal which would follow the publication of this
mystery of iniquity would be awful; that it would even cause
many, forever, to lose faith in our church. So many sad thoughts
filled my mind that I was confused and unable to give him any
advice. I answered:

"Your misfortune is really great. If the bishop were not
here, I might, perhaps, tell you my mind about the best thing to
do, just now. But the bishop is here; he is the only man to
whom you have to go to know how to come out of the bottomless
abyss into which you have fallen. He is your proper counsellor;
go and tell him, frankly, everything, and follow his advice."

With staggering step, and in such deep emotions that his sobs
and cries could be heard for quite a distance, he went to the
bishop. I remained alone, half petrified at what I had heard.

Half an hour later, the bishop came to me. He was pale and
his eyes reddened with tears. He said to me:

"Mr. Chiniquy, what an awful scandal! What a new disgrace
for our holy church! That Mr. Courjeault, whom I
thought, till to-day, to be one of my best priests, is an incarnate
devil. What shall I do with him? Please help me by your
advice; tell me what you consider the best way of preventing
the scandal, and protecting the faith of the good people against
the destructive storm which is coming upon them."

"My dear Bishop," I answered, "the more I consider these
scandals here, the less I see how we can save the church from
becoming a dreadful wreck. I feel too much the responsibility
of my advice to give it. Let your lordship, guided by the Spirit
of God, do what you consider the best for the honor of the
church and the salvation of so many souls, which are in danger
of perishing when this scandal becomes known. For me, the
only thing I can do is to conceal my face with shame, go back to
my young colony to pray and weep and work."

The bishop replied: "Here is what I intend to do. Mr.
Courjeault tells me that there is not the least suspicion among
the people of his sin, and that it is an easy thing to send that girl
to the house provided in Canada for priests' offenses, without
awakening any suspicion. He seems so penitent, that I hope,
hereafter, we have nothing to fear from him. He will now live
the life of a good priest here, without giving any scandal. But
if I remove him, then there will be some suspicions of his fall,
and the awful scandal we want to avoid will come. Please lend
me $100, which I will give to Mr. Courjeault, to send that girl
to Canada as soon as possible; and he will continue here, to work
with wisdom after this terrible trial. What do you think of that
plan?"

"If your lordship is sure of the conversion of Mr. Courjeault,
and that there is no danger of his great iniquity being
known by the people, evidently the wisest thing you can do is

to send that girl to Canada, and keep Mr. Courjeault here.
Though I see great dangers even in that way of dealing in this
sad affair. But, unfortunately, I have not a cent in hand to-day,
and I cannot lend you the $100 you want."

"Then," said the bishop, "I will give a draft on a bank of
Chicago, but you must endorse it."

"I have no objection, my lord, to endorse any draft signed by
your lordship," I replied.

Though it was late in the day, and that I had, at first, proposed
to spend the night, I came back to my dear colony of St.
Anne. Bourbonnais appeared to me like a burning house, in the
cellar of which there was a barrel of powder, from which one
could not keep himself too far away.

Five days later, four of the principal citizens of that interesting,
but sorely tried, place knocked at my door. They were sent
as a deputation from the whole village to ask me what to do
about their curate, Mr. Courjeault. They told me that several
of them had, long since, suspected what was going on between
that priest and the beadle's daughter, but they had kept that secret.
However, yesterday, they said the eyes of the parish had been
opened to the awful scandal.

The disgusting demonstrations and attention of the curate,
when the victim of his lust took the diligence, left no doubt in
the minds of any one that she is to have a child in Montreal.

"Now, Mr. Chiniquy, we are sent here to ask your advice.
Please tell us what to do."

"My dear friends," I answered, "it is not from me, but from
our common bishop, that you must ask what is to be done in such
deplorable affairs."

But they replied: "Would you not be kind enough to come
to Bourbonnais with us, and go to our unfortunate priest to tell
him that his criminal conduct is known by the whole people, and
that we cannot decently keep him a day longer as our Christian
teacher. He has rendered us great services in the past, which
we will never forget. We do not want to abuse or insult him,
in any way. Though guilty, he is still a priest. The only favor
we ask from him now is that he quits the place, without noise

and scandal, in the night, to avoid any disagreeable demonstrations
which might come from his personal enemies, whom his
pharisaical rigidity has made pretty numerous and bitter."

"I do not see any reason to refuse you that favor," I answered.

Three hours later, in the presence of those four gentlemen,
I was delivering my sad message to the unfortunate curate. He
received it as his death warrant. But he was humble, and submitted
to his fate.

After spending four hours with us in settling his affairs, he
fell on his knees, with torrents of tears, he asked pardon for the
scandal he had given, and requested us to ask pardon from the
whole parish, and at 12 o'clock at night he left for Chicago.
That hour was a sad one, indeed, for us all. But my God had a
still sadder hour in store for me. The people of Bourbonnais
had requested me to give them some religious evening services
the next week, and I was just at the end of one of them, the 7th
of May, when, suddenly, the Rev. Mr. Courjeault entered the
church, walked through the crowd, saluting this one, smiling on
that one, and pressing the hands of many. His face bore the
marks of impudence and debauchery.

From one end of the church to the other, a whisper of amazement
and indignation was heard.

"Mr. Courjeault! Mr. Courjeault!! Great God! what does
this mean?"

I observed that he was advancing towards me, probably with
the intention of shaking hands, before the people, but I did not
give him time to do it. I left by the back door, and went to the
parsonage, which was only a few steps distant. He, then, went
back to the door to have a talk with the people, but very few
gave him that chance. Though he affected to be exceedingly
gay, jocose and talkative, he could not get many people to stop
and hear him. Every one, particularly the women, were filled
with disgust, at his impudence. Seeing himself nearly deserted,
at the church door, he turned his steps towards the parsonage,
which he entered, whistling. When he beheld me, he laughed
and said:

"Oh! oh! our dear little Father Chiniquy here? How do
you do?"

"I am quite unwell," I answered, "since I see that you are
so miserably destroying yourself."

"I do not want to destroy myself," he answered; "but it is
you who wants to turn me out of my beautiful parish of Bourbonnais,
to take my place. With the four blockheads who
accompanied you, the other day, you have frightened and persuaded
me that my misfortune with Mary was known by all the
people; but our good bishop has understood that this was a trick
of yours, and that it was one of your lying stories. I came back
to take possession of my parish, and turn you out."

"If the bishop has sent you back here to turn me out, that I
may go back to my dear colony, he has just done what I asked
him to do; for he knows, better than any man, for what great
purpose I came to this country, and that I cannot do my work
so long as he asks me to take care of Bourbonnais. I go, at
once, and leave you in full possession of your parsonage. But I
pity you, when I see the dark cloud which is on your horizon.
Good-bye!"

"You are the only dark cloud on my horizon," he answered.
"When you are gone, I will be in as perfect peace as I was
before you set your feet in Illinois. Good-bye; and please never
come back here, except I invite you."

I left, and ordered my servant-man to drive me back to St
Anne. But when crossing the village, I saw that there was a
terrible excitement among the people. Several times they
stopped me, and requested me to remain in their midst to advise
them what to do.

But I refused, saying to them: "It would be an insult on my
part to advise you anything, in a matter where your duty as men
and Catholics is so clear. Consult the respect you owe to yourselves,
to your families and to your church, and you will know
what to do."

It took me all night, which was very dark, to come back to
St. Anne, where I arrived at dawn, the 9th of May, 1852.

The next Sabbath day, I held a public service in my chapel,

which was crowded, without making any allusion to that deplorable
affair. On the Monday following, four citizens of Bourbonnais
were deputed to tell me what they had done, and asked me
not to desert them in that hour of trial, but to remember that I
was their countryman, and that they had nobody else to whom
they could look to help to fulfill their religious duties. Here is
the substance of their message:

"As soon as we saw that you had left our village, without
telling us what to do, we called a public meeting, where we
passed the following resolutions":

Strange to say, poor Mr. Courjeault, shut up in his parsonage
during that night, knew nothing of that meeting. He had
not found a single friend to warn him of what was to happen
the next Sunday. That Sunday, the weather was magnificent,
and there never had been such a multitude of people at the
church.

The miserable priest, thinking by that unusual crowd, that
everything was to be right with him, that day, began his mass
and went to the pulpit to deliver his sermon. But he had
hardly pronounced the first words, when, at a signal given by
some one, the whole people, without a single exception, ran
out of the church, as if it had been on fire, and he remained
alone.

Of course, this fell upon him as a thunderbolt, and he came
very near fainting. However, recovering himself, he went to
the door, and having with his tears and sobs, as with his words,
persuaded the people to listen to what he had to tell them, he
said:

"I see that the hand of God is upon me, and I deserve it. I

have sinned, and made a mistake by coming back. You do not
want me any more to be your pastor. I can not complain of
that; this is your right, you will be satisfied. I will leave the
place forever, to-night. I only ask you to forgive my past errors
and pray for me."

This short address was followed by the most deadly silence,
not a voice was heard to insult him. Many, on the contrary,
were so much impressed with the sad solemnity of this occurrence
that they could not refrain their tears. The whole people
went back to their homes with broken hearts. Mr. Courjeault
left Bourbonnais that very night, never to return again.
But the awful scandal he had given did not disappear with
him.

Our Great and Merciful God, who, many times, has made
the very sins and errors of his people to work for good, caused
that public iniquity of the priest to remove the scales from many
eyes and prepare them to receive the light, which was already
dawning at the horizon. A voice from heaven was as if heard
by many of us:

"Do you not see that in your Church of Rome, you do not
follow the Word of God, but the lying traditions of men? Is it
not evident that your priest's celibacy is a snare and an institution
of Satan?"

Many asked me to show them, in the Gospel, where Christ
had established the law of celibacy.

"I will do better, I added, "I will put the Gospel in your
hands, and you will look for yourselves in that holy book what
is said on that matter."

The very same day I ordered a merchant, from Montreal, to
send me a large box filled with New Testaments, printed by the
order of the Archbishop of Quebec, and on the 25th as many
from New York. Very soon it was known by every one of
my emigrants that not only had Jesus never forbidden His
apostles and priests to marry, but he had left them free to have
their wives, and live with them, according to the very testimony
of Paul: "Have we not the power to lead about with us a wife
and sister, as well as the rest of the apostles and brethren of the

Lord, and Cephas" (Cor. ix: 55); they saw, by their Gospel,
that the doctrine of celibacy of the priests was not brought from
heaven by Christ, but had been forged in darkness, to add to the
miseries of man. They read and read over again these words
of Christ:

"If you continue in my word, you shall be my disciples
indeed.

"You shall know the truth, and it shall make you free.

"If, therefore, the son shall make you free, you shall be free
indeed" (John viii: 31, 32, 36).

And those promises of liberty, which Christ gave to those
who read and followed His Word, made their hearts leap with
joy. They fell upon their minds as music from heaven. They
also soon found, by themselves, that every time the disciples of
Christ had asked Him who would be the first ruler, or the pope,
in His church, he had always solemnly and positively said that,
in His church, nobody would ever become the first, the ruler or
the pope.

And they began, seriously, to suspect that the great powers
of the pope and his bishops were nothing but a sacrilegious usurpation.
I was not long without seeing that the reading of the
Holy Scriptures by my dear countrymen was changing them
into other men.

Their minds were evidently enlarged and raised to higher
spheres of thought. They were beginning to suspect that the
heavy chains which were wounding their shoulders were preventing
them from making progress in wealth, intelligence and
liberty, as their more fortunate fellow-men, called Protestants.

This was not yet the bright light of the day, but it was the
blessed dawn.