The Priest's Madonna by Amy Hassinger Page B

the tavern with other men of his political persuasion. I imagine they raised glass upon glass to Robespierre, Gambetta, Clemenceau, and the Republic. We could always tell when Father was about to come home on those nights, because we could hear him and his companions in a rowdy rendition of “La Marseillaise,” sung all the way home. Once in the house, Father would stumble wordlessly past Bérenger, who was usually reading by the hearth, and climb into bed with Mother, muttering about his great misfortune at having to share his home with a priest.
    This was a change. Since the time my father had decided to spare Bérenger his usual political harangue, the two had gotten along well. They always shared a smoke after dinner. Bérenger had taken to helping Father with small repairs around the house—patching the roof, rehanging the door when it fell off its hinges—and in return, Father had begun taking an interest in Bérenger’s own building projects. Bérenger had drafted a renovation plan for the church, which included a reconstructed roof, stabilized walls, a new altar with a new set of steps leading up to it, a new confessional, and a new floor for the nave. He and Father pored over the plans together, discussing the merits and risks of various materials: tile, stone, plaster, glass. Bérenger had not yet heard back from the Austrian and spoke heatedly about the immediate necessity of renovation. Father happily denounced the episcopate, the mayor, and the village council—with whom he’d had disagreements in the past—for their refusal to put forward any money for the project. He told bad jokes, which Bérenger laughed at heartily. They avoided discussing politics or religion.
    But as the elections neared, those subjects became more difficult to avoid. It happened that a local boy, Jean-Baptiste Durier from Couiza, was up for a seat in the Chamber. He was a republican, and while many of the men in the village would have voted rightist—or, more commonly, would not have bothered to vote at all—because Durier was a terradorenc they had become republican, if only for the purposes of this election. My father would forgo his customary after-dinner smoke with Bérenger and head for the tavern. Bérenger began leaving copies of his Catholic weekly, La Semaine Réligieuse de Carcassonne, on the table for my father to see, especially when the headlines were particularly antirepublican: “Enemies of Religion Converge on City Center,” or “Bishop Calls Laicization of Schools the Work of the Devil.” My father would drop the paper in the dust outside the front door, letting its pages scatter.
    One night, after I had been sleeping for some time, I woke to the sound of my father and Bérenger arguing.
    “Your Church is doomed,” Father said to Bérenger, his voice smug with liquor.
    “What makes you think that, Edouard?” asked Bérenger calmly.
    “The Republic will prevail. When Church and State are finally separated, the Church will sink fast.”
    “And why is that?” asked Bérenger
    “Who’s going to dole out money voluntarily to an organization that gives them nothing in return?”
    I heard my mother rummaging for her slippers and nightcap.
    “Nothing?” Bérenger said.
    “Empty promises. The worst kind of lies. A fluffy cushion in heaven after you die! Convenient! An IOU, payable only upon death!”
    Claude was stirring and Michelle was awake. She leaned over and asked in a whisper, “What’s going on?”
    “Shhh,” I said.
    Mother descended the stairs, a candle in her hand. “Edouard! Come upstairs this instant!”
    But he ignored her. “Tell me, Monsieur le curé, ” he continued. “Do you believe in God?”
    Bérenger’s voice was soft but sure. “Of course.”
    “You believe you’re going to be frolicking in the clouds, playing the lute? You’re an educated man, for God’s sake!”
    “I believe in eternal life, yes, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
    “Eternal life. What does