CHAPTER XI.

THE PASS-KEY.

Meantime Radegund, on leaving the flustered sacristan, made her way straight to the Bishop’s Palace, and demanded an audience of the chaplain. It was growing late, and the good man was beginning to nod over the missive he was transcribing for my lord, to an ecclesiastic of his diocese, who, said Rumour, was tainted with heresy; but the well-known face of Radegund von Steinbach roused him, and inwardly marvelling what could bring her there at such an hour, he rose, and silently waited for her to tell her errand.

“I wish to speak with my lord,” she said, answering his enquiring glance.

“My lord’s audience has been ended these two hours. To-morrow——”

“Will not suit me. I must see him now.”

“But it is impossible. The Bishop has retired for the night.”

“To bed?”

“No—not precisely. To his private chamber, and is now probably at his devotions.”

“Say Radegund von Steinbach desires to speak with him.”

“But this is informal, it is not the custom.”

“In this instance custom must be waived. Go instantly, and tell my lord that I desire to speak with him on business connected with the Horologe.”

The chaplain wavered; the Horologe was a special hobby with my Lord Bishop, and he was in the habit of looking in very often at the studio to watch its progress; and Conrad Dasipodius stood high in his favour. Moreover, the chaplain, stealing a glance at Radegund, saw in her eyes something which determined him on at least going to acquaint the Bishop with her demand. He soon returned, bringing word that the interview was to be accorded; and Radegund, with her sweeping garments gathered about her, followed the chaplain through a long vaulted corridor, terminating in the audience chamber, but that was all dark now, and they turned off to the left, down a narrow and tortuous stone gallery, until they reached a low arched doorway hung with dusky green arras. Here the chaplain paused, and lifting the curtain, signed to Radegund to enter; then bowing low, he left her.

So deep was the silence reigning in the chamber, that Radegund believed herself alone; and her artist eye busied itself with marking some of its details. Tapestry, wrought with scenes from biblical and ecclesiastical lore, decorated its walls; only the eastern end was lost in the depths of an arched alcove, from whose centre hung a bronze lamp, its steady light dimly illumining a small altar beneath, whereon stood a pyx surmounted by a silver-gilt crucifix exquisitely chased, and flanked by tall candlesticks of the same precious metal. The candles in these were unlighted now, and only the lamp’s gleam revealed the figure of a man clad in a long purple silk cassock, kneeling on the little sanctuary steps. This man’s features were quite lost in the obscurity; but the dignified outline of the bending neck and shoulders, revealed to Radegund the presence of John, Bishop of Strassburg.

Save the stealthy splitting of the burnt-out logs on the hearth, the silence remained unbroken, for Radegund stood by the entrance still as some statue, until the Bishop, crossing breast and brow, rose from his knees, and with one lowly bend of his stately form, turned from the little shrine, and taking a small lamp which stood beside him on the floor, approached the fire, and kindled the wick from its flame; then placing his lamp on the table, he looked at Radegund with keen, enquiring eyes.

Now Radegund von Steinbach was a clever woman, and more than once had rendered the Bishop signal services, which he greatly valued. Despite his lofty bearing, John of Manderscheid, Bishop of Strassburg, was a humane and gentle-hearted man, conscientious to an almost painful degree; but very early in his episcopate he had found that to be a truly just ruler, was indeed a superhuman task. In that portion of the Church Militant which it was his lot to govern, there was many a one, innocent enough possibly in the sight of Heaven, who, judged by an earthly tribunal, would have been found by no means impeccable, and some folks were then vastly chary of making an appearance even as witnesses in the justice hall. It was but recently that the terrible Vehmgericht itself had fallen into abeyance; and for a political mistake, or an awkwardly expressed religious opinion, heads were still frequently known to fall; but the Bishop of Strassburg would avail himself of any fairly obtainable _sub rosâ_ information rather than suffer those summary proceedings, which were the order of the day, and which appeared to him only a very slight modification of lynch law. By means of such information, he was able to grasp the bearings of a case which would otherwise have escaped him.

Oftentimes he would ask himself if this were doing evil that good might come? but he took refuge in the argument that the diseases he had to treat yielded to no ordinary remedies; and then the Bishop would, in his heart of hearts, curse the fate which had thrown him upon such evil times—such curious times, when Christians by no means loved one another, and scarce two men were to be found of one mind in a house; when Catholic had no shadow of a doubt that his Lutheran fellow creature was _Anathema Maranatha_, and Calvinist was much exercised to decide whether Catholic or Lutheran would lie the lower in that howling perdition to which each was inevitably doomed. Those heresies which ever and again from the beginning had cropped up in the Church, were aggravating, troublesome problems enough no doubt, but at least they had had in them some show of reasoning, and compared with the _Shibboleths_ men pronounced now, were easy to solve, and had always left a man leisure enough to prepare himself for Heaven, and to make himself useful in this life besides. Or, on the other hand, had it but pleased God to have cast his lot some century or two later, by then of course men would have settled to their entire satisfaction, all that so greatly disturbed them now; and there would be no more wrangling, no more bitterness, no more spiteful challenging of each other to make clear in poor weak words, those things which all the words under the sun are powerless to express—no more polemical controversy; and then the Bishop sighed, and thought how pleasant it would be to live in those good times, for he shrank from controversy as he would have shrunk from the Upas tree’s shade.

Still he felt that as in Germany, and for the matter of that, in France and Spain, and away there in England too, everybody was talking at once, and no one paid real attention to what the other might be having to say, there was no probability of matters being immediately settled. He had, therefore, long since made up his mind to act as well as he was able for the welfare of his flock, and if he could adjust matters without faggot, and axe, and rack, he always did; and many a time Radegund von Steinbach had helped him to this desirable consummation, by recapitulating to him what she had chanced to hear discussed in her studio, which was a grand centre for the news of the day. The wits, the _savans_, the clergy, fine ladies and gentlemen, all flocked there; and the latest utterance from the Vatican, the most modish style of farthingale, that queer notion about the earth’s rotatory movement, the newest heretical vagary, the noblest design for a sword-hilt, and a hundred other topics were aired in Radegund’s studio; and the Bishop knew that nothing worth remembering ever escaped her.

“This is an unwarrantable intrusion, child,” he said, looking with some anxiety at Radegund. “By what right do you demand an interview at this late hour?”

“By right of my art,” answered Radegund.

The Bishop’s eyes opened wide.

“Your art, forsooth! and could it not wait till morning?”

“No, my lord,” said Radegund.

“I tell you,” continued the Bishop, an angry scarlet spot kindling on his thin pale cheek, “that for this untimely interruption, I could put those clever fingers between the thumbscrews, and spoil their daubings——”

“And the Horologe,” softly concluded Radegund.

The Bishop paused; the Horologe was his hobby—to see the Horologe in all its complete glory was a desire very near his heart.

“And what has the Horologe to do with it?” he asked.

“This much, my lord,” she answered, “that unless you consent to the requisition I have come here to make, I hold myself justified in withdrawing from my share of this contract”; and Radegund drew forth a roll of parchment which the Bishop recognised as the written agreement between Radegund and the City of Strassburg for the decorative painting of the new Horologe. “With your leave, my Lord Bishop, I will read.”

“But——,” said the Bishop, who was very tired.

“I,” pitilessly began Radegund, “Radegund von Steinbach, do hereby promise and undertake to cover and adorn the cornice, entablatures, panellings, and divers other portions of the new Horologe now about to be builded in the cathedral of this good City of Strassburg with fair and fitting adornments of paintings, the said adornments of paintings to be completed before or by the date of the public dedication of the aforesaid Horologe to the service of God, and for the use and benefit of the citizens of this city. Furthermore——”

“Yes,” said the Bishop, repressing a yawn, “’tis indeed drawn up in right clerkly style, but——”

“Furthermore,” continued the ruthless Radegund, “it is conceded that every aid and furtherance for the better and more perfect carrying out of the aforesaid painting work be accorded to me, Radegund von Steinbach, and that no lets, hindrance, or obstacle of whatsoever kind or sort—mark that, my lord—be placed in my way, else shall this contract be null and void. You mark, my lord?”

“Of a certainty yes, my child,” assented the Bishop.

“Furthermore,” sternly continued Radegund, “I do hereby acknowledge that in consideration of my promised service, I have received a portion of the guerdon to be paid for my labours. Here it is, my lord,” and drawing from beneath her mantle a bag of money, the artist pushed it across the table towards the Bishop. “Take your gold again, but count it—not a florin has been touched.”

“But ——,” said the Bishop.

“And now to destroy this contract,” she said, folding the parchment again and again, until it was but an inch-wide strip; then she brought it near to the lamp’s flame, but still at a safe distance. “This piece of skin shall shrivel like a heretic, for like a heretic it has broken faith.” Then, for the first time, she paused, waiting for a reply, and the Bishop hurried to seize his advantage.

“But the requisition, child,” he said.

“I am coming to that,” answered the politic Radegund, who had but hung her threats like Damocles’ sword over the Bishop’s head; “it is simply that I require a key to pass me into the cathedral—to paint—when I will.”

“But,” contended the Bishop, “Brother Prudentius is in the cathedral from dawn to sunset.”

“Brother Prudentius,” answered Radegund, “is precisely the let, hindrance, and obstacle of which I complain to you, my lord. Brother Prudentius is a coward and a glutton; he is afraid of ghosts, and he is always talking about his supper.”

“Concerning ghosts, my daughter, which treats of the supernatural, many erudite and holy men hold the opinion of our worthy Prudentius. The cathedral, as you are well aware, is said to be haunted. Regarding supper, that treats of the natural and lawful desire of the carnal man,” and here the Bishop cast a glance at his own simple evening repast spread ready on a distant buffet. “I cannot see that Prudentius is specially blameworthy.”

“Not blameworthy?” interrupted the artist, “when he is for ever blighting my truest inspirations! They come to me, my lord, always with the twilight and the stars; then, too, comes this dolt, this idiot with his jingling keys and his hideous grin. ‘Time’s up, mistress,’ he says, ‘we may take holiday now.’ Think of that, my lord,” and Radegund’s brow crimsoned at the recollection.

“But he is right. It is this zeal, this love for your art, which is too great for your body’s health. Look,” continued the Bishop, taking one of Radegund’s thin hands in his, and holding it to the light, “how wasted and fragile are these fingers; and your eyes too are so hollow, child, and your cheeks so wan and pale. When do you take rest?”

“Rest?” muttered Radegund. “No, no rest!”

“But that is wrong, sinful. Is it not our Lord Christ who speaks of the night as that time when none can work?”

“And is it not He,” retorted the artist, “Who said the ‘wind bloweth where it listeth; thou canst not tell whence it cometh, or whither it goeth’? And so it is with us artists, my lord; many a dazzling, tedious, garish day passes, and our hands and brains are so lifeless, that the fools and money-grubbers call us nicknames, and chide us for a lazy, worthless, pleasure-loving herd, who only cumber the ground; but when the sun sets, and the world sleeps—when the black cloud-curtains gather about us, and without all is hidden, then it is that the lamp of our souls grows brighter than Heaven’s stars, and memory and phantasy come forth—oh, the night is beautiful!”

“But,” argued the practical Bishop, “one cannot go painting in the dark.”

“Are we toiling only when the brush is in our hands? You mock me, my lord. Cannot your soul, which so loves the work we do, tell you that we must be free, free to come and go into the presence of our creations as we will? We cannot brook to be girded hither and thither at the bidding of pitiful earth-clods like yon Prudentius.”

“That is all very well,” said the Bishop; “but your fellow-worker now, the mathematician, whom many a time I have heard you say is not to be matched for devotion to his great art-knowledge—he does not complain of our cathedral rules. Your friend I mean, Conrad Dasipodius, he is content to work by day.”

“The night and day are alike to Conrad Dasipodius,” and Radegund’s voice trembled somewhat; “I mean,” she added hastily, “that it is his nature to be as accurately balanced as a piece of his own clockwork.”

“And yet he too is an enthusiast, an artist.”

“Truly,” said Radegund; “but who can ever be like Conrad Dasipodius.”

“Indeed, he is no ordinary man,” answered the Bishop. “A noble nature;—but you are ill, Radegund!” for Radegund had grown very pale. “Poor child, poor child! what is it that ails thee? What can bring back those old bright looks? Tell me!” and as the old man laid his hand kindly on Radegund’s shoulder, a warm tear fell on it all unbidden; but Radegund would have nothing to do with the luxury of tears, and brushing the intruder away, she said with a harsh, unreal smile, which troubled the wise Bishop far more than tears could trouble him, “The key, the key, my father; that will make me as happy as a queen.”

“But,” said the Bishop, resorting to his last forlorn remonstrance, “what if you should set the cathedral on fire with your lamp?”

“Tush!” said Radegund, with no small impatience, “give me the key.”

“What if folks ask——”

“Tell them that Radegund von Steinbach works at their Horologe. Now, give me the key.”

“But they will never understand——”

“And what then? Surely a Bishop is lord of his own cathedral. What a piece of work is this, about a poor little morsel of iron!”

“But it is just this little morsel of iron which gives access to the entire cathedral. If anything should go wrong, the blame would fall on you. Have you considered this?”

“I have considered all, my lord. Give me the key, and let me go.”

With a sigh the Bishop turned towards a massive oaken press; unlocking it, and opening a secret drawer, he produced from it the coveted _open sesame_. Then he crossed the chamber, and lifting some drapery which hung before one of the casements, he pointed across the moonlit courtyard to a low iron-clamped door, sunken deeply into the cathedral wall; placing the key in her hand, he said, “Take it, it is my own private key; Prudentius has its duplicate—it only admits through yonder door.”

Radegund’s fingers closed greedily on the coveted prize, and then she hurriedly turned to depart. “Since when have you learned to despise the benediction of Holy Church?” asked the Bishop, in a tone of reproach.

“Forgive me, my lord, I forgot,” said Radegund, and then she came back and knelt at his feet. “May Christ and His Blessed Mother watch over thee, and guard thy ways,” said the Bishop solemnly. Radegund murmured a very low _amen_, then she was gone.

“These artist-folks—what wayward creatures they are!” thought the Bishop to himself, as he lay down that night on his bed; “and, Holy Mary, how irritable! Still, Prudentius does know how to make himself terribly tiresome, I am quite aware of that. What a glorious work this Horologe will be, perfect within and without. Conrad Dasipodius and Radegund von Steinbach working hand-in-hand. A masterpiece indeed.” Then the Bishop fell asleep, and dreamed of the Horologe.