The hotel landlady thought that this might indeed be a good idea. She went up to the stranger's room and came down a few minutes later.
"He's agreed. He says it's hidden in the forest and that he'll bring it here tomorrow."
"I guess I don't need to work today, then."
"You certainly do. It's in your contract."
She didn't know how to broach the subject she and the others had spent the afternoon discussing, but it was important to gauge the girl's reaction.
"I'm really shocked by all this," she said. "At the same time, I realize that people need to think twice or even ten times before they decide what they should do."
"They could think it over twenty or two hundred times and they still wouldn't have the courage to do anything."
"You may be right," the hotel landlady agreed, "but if they do decide to make a move, what would you do?"
The woman needed to know what Chantal's reaction would be, and Chantal realized that the stranger was far closer to the truth than she was, despite her having lived in Viscos all those years. A meeting in the square! What a pity the gallows had been dismantled.
"So what would you do?" the landlady insisted.
"I won't answer that question," she said, even though she knew exactly what she would do. "I'll only say that Evil never brings Good. I discovered that for myself this afternoon."
The hotel landlady didn't like having her authority flouted, but thought it prudent not to argue with the young woman and risk an enmity that could bring problems in the future. On the pretext that she needed to bring the accounts up to date (an absurd excuse, she thought later, since there was only one guest in the hotel), she left Miss Prym alone in the bar. She felt reassured; Miss Prym showed no signs of rebellion, even after she had mentioned the meeting in the square, which showed that something unusual was happening in Viscos. Besides, Miss Prym also had a great need for money, she had her whole life ahead of her, and would almost certainly like to follow in the footsteps of her childhood friends who had already left the village. And, even if she wasn't willing to cooperate, at least she didn't seem to want to interfere.
The priest dined frugally then sat down alone on one of the church pews. The mayor would be there in a few minutes.
He contemplated the whitewashed walls, the altar unadorned by any important work of art, decorated instead with cheap reproductions of paintings of the saints who--in the dim and distant past--had lived in the region. The people of Viscos had never been very religious, despite the important role St. Savin had played in resurrecting the fortunes of the place. But the people forgot this and preferred to concentrate on Ahab, on the Celts, on the peasants' centuries-old superstitions, failing to understand that it took only a gesture, a simple gesture, to achieve redemption: that of accepting Jesus as the sole Saviour of humanity.
Only hours earlier, he had offered himself up for martyrdom. It had been a risky move, but he had been prepared to see it through and deliver himself over for sacrifice, had the others not been so frivolous and so easily manipulated.
"No, that's not true. They may be frivolous, but they're not that easily manipulated." Indeed, through silence or clever words, they had made him say what they wanted to hear: the sacrifice that redeems, the victim who saves, decay transformed anew into glory. He had pretended to let himself be used by the others, but had only said what he himself believed.
He had been prepared for the priesthood from an early age, and that was his true vocation. By the time he was twenty-one, he had already been ordained a priest, and had impressed everyone with his gifts as a preacher and his skill as a parish administrator. He said prayers every evening, visited the sick and those in prison, gave food to the hungry--just as the holy scriptures commanded. His fame soon spread throughout the region and reached the ears of the bishop, a man known for his wisdom and fairness.
The bishop invited him, together with other young priests, for an evening meal. They ate and talked about various matters until, at the end, the bishop, who was getting old and had difficulties walking, got up and offered each of them some water. The priest had been the only one not to refuse, asking for his glass to be filled to the brim.
One of the other priests whispered, loud enough for the bishop to hear: "We all refused the water because we know we are not worthy to drink from the hands of this saintly man. Only one among us cannot see the sacrifice our superior is making in carrying that heavy bottle."
When the bishop returned to his seat, he said:
"You, who think you are holy men, were not humble enough to receive and so denied me the pleasure of giving. Only this man allowed Good to be made manifest."
He immediately appointed him to a more important parish.
The two men became friends and continued to see each other often. Whenever he had any doubts, the priest would turn to the person he called "my spiritual father," and he usually left satisfied with the answers he got. One evening, for example, he was troubled because he could no longer tell whether or not his actions were pleasing to God. He went to see the bishop and asked what he should do.
"Abraham took in strangers, and God was happy," came the reply. "Elijah disliked strangers, and God was happy. David was proud of what he was doing, and God was happy. The publican before the altar was ashamed of what he did, and God was happy. John the Baptist went out into the desert, and God was happy. Paul went to the great cities of the Roman Empire, and God was happy. How can one know what will please the Almighty? Do what your heart commands, and God will be happy."
The day after this conversation, the bishop, his great spiritual mentor, died from a massive heart attack. The priest saw the bishop's death as a sign, and began to do exactly what he had recommended; he followed the commands of his heart. Sometimes he gave alms, sometimes he told the person to go and find work. Sometimes he gave a very serious sermon, at others he sang along with his congregation. His behavior reached the ears of the new bishop, and he was summoned to see him.
He was astonished to find that the new bishop was the same person who, a few years earlier, had made the comment about the water served by his predecessor.
"I know that today you're in charge of an important parish," the new bishop said, an ironic look in his eye, "and that over the years you became a great friend of my predecessor, perhaps even aspiring to this position yourself."
"No," the priest replied, "aspiring only to wisdom."
"Well, you must be a very wise man by now, but I've heard strange stories about you, that sometimes you give alms and that sometimes you refuse the aid that our Church says we should offer."
"I have two pockets, each contains a piece of paper with writing on it, but I only put money in my left pocket," he said in reply.