Page:Gilbert Parker--The Lane that had No Turning.djvu/163

Rh "It is my work—my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands," said François doggedly.

The Curé turned to Lajeunesse and made a motion towards the statue. Lajeunesse, with a burning righteous joy, snatched off the canvas. There was one instant of confusion in the faces of all—of absolute silence. Then the crowd gasped. The Curé’s hat came off, and every other hat followed. The Curé made the sign of the cross upon his breast and forehead, and every other man, woman, and child present did the same. Then all knelt, save François and the Curé himself.

What they saw was a statue of Christ, a beautiful benign figure; barefooted, with a girdle about his waist: the very truth and semblance of a man. The type was strong and yet delicate; vigorous and yet refined; crude and yet noble; a leader of men—the God-man, not the man-God.

After a moment’s silence the Curé spoke. "François, my son," said he, "we have erred. ‘All we like sheep have gone astray; we have followed each after his own way, but God hath laid on Him’—he looked towards the statue—‘the iniquity of us all.’"

François stood still a moment gazing at the Curé, doggedly, bitterly; then he turned and looked scornfully at the crowd, now risen to their feet again. Among them was a girl crying as if her heart would break. It was Jeanne Marchand. He regarded her coldly.

"You were so ready to suspect," he said.

Then he turned once more to the Curé. "I meant it as my gift to the Church, monsieur le Curé—to Pontiac, where I was born again. I waked up here to