Part 2 — ORLÉANS AND ITS CLERGY.

In the outskirts of Orléans, between the roads leading to Paris and Chartres, stands an antique chapel under the invocation of Notre Dame des Aydes—the remains of a former hospital. Thousands of pilgrims have been here to pray, from age to age: among them the last of the Valois, the indolent Henry III. A small statue of Our Lady of Aid on one of the gables seems to welcome and bless the traveller. To this sacred spot, that for ages had known no other sound but the voice of prayer and praise, and no other smoke but that of holy incense, came the din of war and the smoke of cannon. Around this asylum of peace took place one of the most thrilling scenes of the late war. The battalion of foreign legions held the place for a time under a frightful cannonading on the part of the Prussian forces. M. Arago, the commander, perished gloriously on the field of battle. The thirteen hundred men under him were of all races and climes. The Austrian mingled with the Italian; the negro of the desert with the Polish exile; the Chinese with the Servian prince. Of these, six hundred were killed or wounded; three hundred made prisoners; the remainder escaped to recommence the combat elsewhere. The Germans pressed on, leaving behind them the flaming houses of the faubourgs to record their triumph. They pushed into the very heart of the city—to the statue of Joan of Arc, which must have wept out its very heart of stone at its powerlessness to drive out this new invader—to the steps of the church where the holy maid once worshipped, or, if not the same, to one on the same spot, for the ancient church of Ste. Croix was destroyed by those Brise-Moutiers, the Calvinists, and rebuilt by Henry IV.

Among the inhabitants of Orléans, one man of sacred character and European reputation stands out prominently at the time of this invasion—the illustrious Bishop Dupanloup. This eminent prelate has had the unique privilege of displaying his eloquence before a very unusual variety of audiences—at the Sorbonne, the French Academy, the Palais de Justice, the National Assemblies, the pulpit of Notre Dame de Paris, and the Council of the Vatican. He has also pleaded the cause of weakness, justice, and patriotism before an arrogant conqueror. In this time of universal alarm, the Bishop of Orléans proved himself a worthy successor of the bishops in the times of the invasions of the barbarians, around whom gathered the multitude with a feeling of security. Wherever there was severity to be tempered, crime to be denounced, wounded to be rescued, or condemned to be saved, he was brought to interpose. The panic-struck women from the smoking ruins of Châteaudun betook themselves to him. He was a refuge when every other hope failed. The august function of Defensor Civitatis, Defender of the City, which the popular voice once bestowed on the bishops, had come down from the ages of faith. St. Agnan’s holy prayers are said to have delivered Orléans from Attila, who besieged it in the fifth century. Hence, every bishop of Orléans, when he took possession of his see, enjoyed for ages the privilege of delivering all prisoners. When the new bishop approached the city, all the prisoners came out in procession with ropes around their necks, and knelt before him to implore release. Then they went back to the city, and heard Mass in the church of St. Yves. At a later hour they assembled in the court of the évêché to listen to an address from the bishop, who, from a window, exhorted them to atone for their previous misdeeds by their penitential lives. He then gave them his blessing, a dinner was provided for them, after which they all went where they pleased. This was only one of the results of the moral power of the first bishop of the country. What the popular voice at first bestowed, afterwards merged into political power when the time of peril was past, and the burden accepted as a possible duty to their flock became a source of reproach, as if it were usurped.

Bishop Dupanloup was worthy the old title Defensor Civitatis. He filled the office simply and generously, with a devotedness nothing could exhaust and a firmness nothing could bend. At the second occupation of Orléans, when the Prussians had replaced the Bavarians, the kind of Truce of God that naturally established itself around the servant of the Most High was done away with. The bishop was an object of severity in his turn; he was imprisoned in a corner of his own palace and strictly guarded. Prince Frederick Charles was impolitic. He should have been mindful of a great captain of loftier genius than his—Prince Eugene, whom history honors for honoring Fénelon at Cambrai.

In speaking of the Bishop of Orleans, we must not forget the priests that everywhere, in town as well as hamlet, walked in his noble footsteps. In the engagements at Notre Dame des Aydes and Coulmiers, as well as elsewhere, the priests, both curé and vicar, were at their posts, going to and fro among the wounded, with hands not raised with murderous weapons, but uplifted to bless; not inflicting death, but braving it, and consoling the dying.

The Moniteur Officiel at Berlin has reproached the clergy of Orléans for what is really their glory. “At the approach of our troops,” says the Prussian journal, “the solitary laborer threw down his spade, seized his musket on the ground beside him, and fired. Every day such opponents were brought to headquarters and shot according to martial law. Priests were often brought with them who had abetted or been actors in some instance of bold resistance.”

Such was the touching emulation of all classes in rallying to defence against the invader.

In the Armée du Nord, General Faidherbe also testifies to the same devotedness on the part of the clergy, and mentions with special gratitude the bold stand of the Archbishop of Cambrai, the Bishop of Arras, the hospital sisters at Corbie, and the clergy generally. He especially holds up one brave Dominican monk for admiration—doubtless a disciple of Lacordaire, or one of the companions of the Martyrs of Arcueil—the Père Mercier, “who received four wounds at the battle of Amiens, where he displayed remarkable courage.”

The bravery and patriotism of the priesthood is no new thing. How constantly were they evinced during the middle ages! If their sacred character did not allow them to participate actively in the fray, they were there to animate and encourage, and especially to succor the dying. Among a thousand instances, we read that, at the battle of Neville’s Cross, the Prior of Durham, England, and his monks, took the sacred banner of St. Cuthbert, and repaired to a hillock in sight of both armies, hoisted it, knelt around it, and prayed. Other brethren from the belfry of the cathedral sang hymns of praise and triumph, which were heard afar off in a most miraculous manner.

Yes: Orléans has reason to be proud of its clergy, with its hereditary spirit. “The heart of France” has not lost its ancient courage. The service its people rendered the crown in ancient times induced Louis XI. to give it as its arms an open heart, showing the lilies of France within. Above this blason is the quatrain

And another poet has said:

Orléans being so-called from the Emperor Aurelian, who enlarged the city towards the end of the third century, and gave it the name of Aurelianum, from which Aurliens, and finally Orléans.

Perhaps Orléanais has had the glorious privilege of suffering more than any other part of France for its country. It has been a battle-field on which some of the most famous personages in history have figured. Cæsar ran over the country as a conqueror; Attila withdrew from it conquered and humiliated; here the Maid of Orléans delivered France; here Francis de Guise died after forcing Charles V. to give up Metz; and here Turenne saved the country threatened by the Fronde. For two centuries the valley of the Loire had not been disturbed by the noise of arms, but Orléans, Coulmiers, Villepion, etc., now testify how the open heart of France has again bled and suffered.