Corinth, i. 32.

(2) Celibacy of the clergy, an invention truly fiendish.

CHAPTER C

In compliance with a Custom I despise, but have not the spirit to
resist, I linger on the stage to pick up the smaller fragments of
humanity I have scattered about; i.e. some of them, for the wayside
characters have no claim on me; they have served their turn if they have
persuaded the reader that Gerard travelled from Holland to Rome through
human beings, and not through a population of dolls.

Eli and Catherine lived to a great age: lived so long, that both Gerard
and Margaret grew to be dim memories. Giles also was longaevous; he went
to the court of Bavaria, and was alive there at ninety, but had somehow
turned into bones and leather, trumpet toned.

Cornelis, free from all rivals, and forgiven long ago by his mother, who
clung to him more and more now all her brood was scattered, waited and
waited and waited for his parents' decease. But Catherine's shrewd word
came true; ere she and her mate wore out, this worthy rusted away. At
sixty-five he lay dying of old age in his mother's arms, a hale woman
of eighty-six. He had lain unconscious a while, but came to himself
in articulo mortis, and seeing her near him, told her how he would
transform the shop and premises as soon as they should be his. "Yes, my
darling," said the poor old woman soothingly, and in another minute he
was clay, and that clay was followed to the grave by all the feet whose
shoes he had waited for.

Denys, broken-hearted at his comrade's death, was glad to return to
Burgundy, and there a small pension the court allowed him kept him until
unexpectedly he inherited a considerable sum from a relation. He was
known in his native place for many years as a crusty old soldier,
who could tell good stories of war when he chose, and a bitter railer
against women.

Jerome, disgusted with northern laxity, retired to Italy, and having
high connections became at seventy a mitred abbot. He put on the screw
of discipline; his monks revered and hated him. He ruled with iron rod
ten years. And one night he died, alone; for he had not found the way to
a single heart. The Vulgate was on his pillow, and the crucifix in his
hand, and on his lips something more like a smile than was ever seen
there while he lived; so that, methinks, at that awful hour he was not
quite alone. Requiescat in pace. The Master he served has many servants,
and they have many minds, and now and th