The Lectern
Inspired by "Le Lutrin," the Heroic-Comic Poem by Nicolas Boileau Despréaux
Voice-over provided by Eleven Labs or Amazon Polly
The Lectern
By Gio Marron
Inspired by "Le Lutrin," the Heroic-Comic Poem by Nicolas Boileau Despréaux
The gilded cross atop the Église Saint-Sulpice pierced the Parisian sky like a sentinel's spear, its shadow stretching across the cobblestone square as if reaching for eternity. Father Ambroise, the church's treasurer, observed this daily spectacle from his chamber window, a simple goblet of red wine held loosely in his plump fingers. The year was 1667, and the sun had barely crested the horizon, casting a golden glow over the city's slate roofs and chimney pots.
Though modest by the standards of Parisian nobility, the chamber spoke of comfort earned through years of dedicated service. A well-worn breviary lay open on a small writing desk, its pages marked with ribbons of various hues. The walls were adorned with a few carefully chosen religious paintings, their gilt frames catching the early morning light.
"Gilotin," Ambroise called, his voice a blend of authority and weariness, "what matters demand my attention this morning?"
The steward appeared at his elbow as if summoned by the very utterance of his name. Gilotin, a man of indeterminate age with eyes that held the wisdom of decades, smoothed his simple black cassock before responding.
"The usual, Father. Morning Mass, which Father Laurent has graciously offered to lead once more, followed by your meeting with the parish accountant. Additionally, Madame Beaumont has requested a visit to discuss her late husband's memorial."
Ambroise grunted, taking a measured sip of his wine. The vintage was unremarkable, befitting his station, but he savored it nonetheless. "Laurent's zeal is becoming tiresome. A priest should know his place."
Gilotin's face remained impassive, but his eyes held a glimmer of understanding. "Indeed, Father. Though some might say, that fervor in God's service is commendable."
"Some might," Ambroise conceded, his tone indicating he was not among them. He turned from the window, his modest nightshirt swaying around his ankles. "Yet there is such a thing as excessive piety. It disturbs the natural order."
As if on cue, the sound of spirited chanting drifted up from the chapel below. Father Laurent's tenor rose above the choir, clear and impassioned. The Latin words of the Magnificat soared through the morning air, a testament to the young priest's dedication.
Ambroise's lips pressed into a thin line. "He will exhaust the congregation at this rate," he muttered. "Gilotin, my robes. It appears I must make an appearance this morning after all."
As Gilotin assisted Ambroise into his ecclesiastical vestments—layers of fine linen and wool that spoke of his rank within the church hierarchy—neither man noticed the old woman who had paused beneath the treasurer's window. Her eyes, sharp as a raven's, took in the worn but well-kept curtains and the glint of simple silver candlesticks on the table. A smile played at the corners of her mouth, but it held no warmth—only the cold satisfaction of one who has found a fissure in a fortress wall.
Madame Discorde—for so she called herself—adjusted her faded shawl and continued toward the church's side entrance. She had sown seeds of strife in grander institutions than Saint-Sulpice, but there was something particularly enticing about the prospect of discord in a house of God. The very stones of the church seemed to whisper of centuries of prayers, confessions, and human frailties—a rich soil for her particular brand of mischief.
Father Laurent was immersed in devotion inside the chapel, his arms raised as he led the morning prayers. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow, a testament to the fervor of his faith. The young priest, barely into his thirties, cut a striking figure in his pristine surplice. His sharp and earnest features spoke of nights spent in study and contemplation.
Yet beneath his spiritual ardor, Laurent remained acutely aware of the undercurrents at play within the church. He knew Ambroise resented his initiatives, his efforts to invigorate centuries-old rituals. The tension between them was like a taut bowstring, ready to release at the slightest provocation.
As Laurent intoned the final "Amen," his eyes glanced toward the back of the chapel. Ambroise stood there, dignified in his official robes, a hint of displeasure shadowing his face. Their gazes met, and in that moment, both men sensed the first tremors of a conflict that would shake Saint-Sulpice to its very foundations.
Neither noticed the old woman slipping into a back pew, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. Madame Discorde settled herself comfortably, her gnarled hands folded in her lap, the very picture of pious attention. But her ears were pricked for any whisper of dissent, any murmur of discontent among the faithful.
As the congregation filed out after the service, the air thick with the lingering scent of incense, Laurent made his way to the sacristy. He was surprised to find Ambroise waiting for him, a look of careful neutrality on his face.
"A spirited service, Father Laurent," Ambroise said, his tone measured. "The congregation seemed... invigorated."
Laurent inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Father Ambroise. I merely seek to inspire a deeper connection to our Lord's teachings."
"Indeed," Ambroise replied a hint of dryness in his voice. "One must be cautious, however, not to let enthusiasm overshadow the solemnity of our rituals. The Church has thrived for centuries on the strength of its traditions."
Laurent felt a familiar frustration rising within him but kept his voice even. "Certainly, tradition is the bedrock of our faith. Yet surely there is room for both reverence and passion in our worship?"
Ambroise's eyes narrowed slightly. "Perhaps. But it is a delicate balance that requires wisdom and experience to maintain."
The implied criticism was clear, and Laurent felt his cheeks warm. Before he could formulate a response, Gilotin appeared at the doorway.
"Pardon the interruption, Fathers," the steward said softly. "Father Ambroise, Madame Beaumont has arrived for her appointment."
Ambroise nodded, seeming almost relieved at the interruption. "Very well. We shall continue this discussion another time, Father Laurent."
As Ambroise departed, Laurent found himself alone in the sacristy, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily in the air. He busied himself with arranging the vestments, his mind churning with plans and aspirations for the parish.
He didn't notice the shadow that briefly darkened the doorway—Madame Discorde, her eyes glittering with interest before she slipped away into the winding streets of Paris.
The following days saw an increase in tension within the walls of Saint-Sulpice. Father Laurent, inspired by his vision of a more engaging and accessible faith, had taken it upon himself to introduce a new element to the church's furnishings.
Father Laurent's fingers traced the smooth wood of the new lectern, a recent addition to the choir that stood like a silent sentinel before the altar. The craftsmanship was exquisite—Italian maple inlaid with ebony, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of vines and doves. A gift from a devout patron, it symbolized everything Laurent strove for: beauty in the service of faith, the harmony of tradition, and renewal.
The afternoon sun streamed through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the polished surface of the lectern. Laurent felt a surge of pride as he imagined the impact this beautiful piece would have on the congregation and how it would elevate the reading of the scriptures and inspire deeper contemplation.
"Admiring your latest acquisition?"
The voice edged with sarcasm, belonged to Father Ambroise. He stood in the archway, one hand resting on his ample middle, the other gripping his rosary with barely concealed agitation.
Laurent straightened a mild smile on his lips. "Admiring God's handiwork, expressed through the skill of artisans. It is a magnificent piece, would you not agree?"
Ambroise's eyes narrowed as he approached, his gaze critical as it swept over the lectern. "Magnificent, perhaps. Necessary? I think not. The old lectern has served us well for generations."
"Progress is not a sin, Ambroise," Laurent replied gently, though his eyes were keen. "Even the Church must embrace renewal. Did not our Lord himself speak of new wine in new wineskins?"
"Renewal, you say?" Ambroise chuckled without humor. "Grand words for what amounts to vanity and presumption. Tell me, who authorized this... embellishment?"
The air between them tightened with tension. Laurent had anticipated this confrontation and rehearsed his response in the quiet of his chambers many times. Yet now, facing Ambroise's barely concealed ire, he felt a flicker of uncertainty.
"The patron who donated it did so with the approval of the parish committee," he said carefully, his hand resting protectively on the lectern. "I merely oversaw its placement."
"The parish committee," Ambroise repeated, each word heavy with disdain. "And who, pray tell, presides over this committee when present?"
Laurent met his gaze steadily. "You do, Father Ambroise. But in your absence—"
"Absence?" Ambroise's voice rose, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The sound startled a dove roosting in the rafters, sending it fluttering among the stone arches. "I was attending to diocesan matters, not indulging in leisure. You had no right—"
"I had every right," Laurent interjected his own temper stirring. He took a deep breath, striving to maintain his composure. "As choirmaster, the arrangement of the choir falls under my care. This lectern will enhance our services, allowing for greater engagement with the Word of God."
"What it will do," Ambroise hissed, stepping closer, his face flushed with indignation, "is upset the established order of this sacred place. Today a lectern, tomorrow what? Alterations to the liturgy? Innovations that have no place within these hallowed walls?"
Laurent opened his mouth to respond, but a discreet cough from the shadows drew their attention. Gilotin stood there, his face composed but his eyes attentive, a silent witness to the brewing storm.
"Pardon the interruption, Fathers," Gilotin said softly, his voice a balm to the heated atmosphere. "A messenger from the Bishop's office has arrived. He bears an urgent missive regarding the upcoming feast day preparations."
Ambroise shot Laurent a look that could sour wine. "This discussion is far from over," he growled before turning sharply and departing, his robes swirling around him like a thundercloud.
As his footsteps receded, Laurent leaned against the lectern, the surge of adrenaline leaving him weary. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he had overstepped if his zeal for renewal was indeed clouding his judgment.
He hadn't noticed the old woman sitting in the back pew, her eyes alight with satisfaction at the discord she had witnessed.
Madame Discorde rose, her movements belying her apparent age, and approached Laurent. The tap of her cane on the stone floor echoed in the now-quiet church. "A stirring exchange, Father," she said, her voice raspy yet penetrating. "One might think you were actors upon a stage rather than shepherds of souls."
Laurent blinked, surprised by her sudden appearance. "I beg your pardon, madame. I did not see you there. Are you in need of assistance?"
She laughed softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "Assistance? No, Father. I am merely an observer of human nature. Tell me, do you believe this lectern is worth the strife it brings?"
"It's not merely about the lectern," Laurent replied, frowning slightly. His eyes took in the woman's appearance—her faded shawl, the glint of intelligence in her rheumy eyes. "It's about enriching our worship, drawing the faithful into a deeper communion with the divine."
"Ah, yes. Enrichment." Madame Discorde's smile was enigmatic, revealing teeth that seemed just a touch too sharp. "A noble aim. But at what cost? Discord between brothers, perhaps?"
Laurent felt a subtle chill as though a cold draft had suddenly swept through the church. Something was unsettling about this woman, an uncanny perception in her gaze that seemed to pierce through his carefully constructed justifications. "May I ask your name, madame?"
But she was already turning away, her faded shawl trailing behind her like a banner. "Just a passerby, Father. An old woman with a keen interest in the affairs of the Church. Do convey my regards to Father Ambroise. I suspect we shall all become well acquainted in the coming days."
As she disappeared through the side door, Laurent found himself gripping the lectern as though it might anchor him amid uncertain tides. The late afternoon sun slanted through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the floor. For a fleeting moment, Laurent thought one of the shadows moved independently, slipping toward the door through which Ambroise had departed.
Shaking off the fanciful notion, Laurent began preparing for the evening Vespers. Yet as he arranged his texts upon the new lectern, smoothing the pages with care, he could not dispel the feeling that he had unwittingly set events in motion—and that enigmatic old woman held secrets yet unrevealed.
In the days that followed, the atmosphere at Saint-Sulpice grew increasingly tense. The lectern stood at the center of it all, a lodestone for the growing tempest. Laurent used it with a flourish, his sermons drawing larger crowds each week. Ambroise pointedly ignored it, choosing to speak from memory, his stentorian voice filling the church without need for aid.
The congregation, sensitive to the undercurrents of conflict, began to take sides. Whispered conversations in the narthex after Mass spoke of tradition versus progress, respect for authority versus the need for renewal.
"Father Laurent makes the scriptures come alive," one parishioner would say, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "It's as though I'm hearing the Word anew."
"Perhaps," another would counter, his voice heavy with disapproval, "but at what cost? Father Ambroise understands the weight of our traditions. He respects the old ways that have served us well for centuries."
Through it all, Madame Discorde flitted from group to group, a word here, a suggestion there. To Laurent's supporters, she spoke of Ambroise's resistance to change his comfortable complacency. To Ambroise's stalwarts, she hinted at Laurent's ambition and his disregard for sacred traditions.
The seeds of discord, once planted, grew with alarming speed.
As the conflict simmered, life at Saint-Sulpice continued its outward routines. The bells tolled for Matins and Vespers, confessions were heard, and the sacraments administered. Yet beneath this veneer of normality, tensions continued to mount.
One crisp autumn morning, Father Ambroise sat in his study, poring over the parish accounts by the light of a guttering candle. The scratching of his quill on parchment filled the room, punctuated by occasional sighs of frustration. A knock at the door broke his concentration.
"Enter," he called, not bothering to look up from his work.
Gilotin stepped in, a tray balanced carefully in his hands. "I thought you might like some refreshment, Father," he said, setting down a steaming cup of tisane and a small plate of butter biscuits.
Ambroise waved a dismissive hand. "Thank you, Gilotin, but I must attend to these matters. The Bishop expects a full accounting by week's end."
Gilotin hesitated, his eyes taking in the slump of Ambroise's shoulders, the deep furrows in his brow. "Is everything all right, Father? You seem troubled."
Ambroise sighed heavily, finally setting down his quill. He reached for the cup, inhaling the soothing aroma of chamomile and mint. "It is this situation with Laurent. He is earnest; I'll grant him that, but I fear his impetuousness may lead us astray."
"Perhaps a conversation might ease tensions," Gilotin suggested gently. "A meeting of minds rather than a clash of wills."
Ambroise rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of his responsibilities pressing down upon him. "You may be right. I shall consider it. But first, these accounts must be put in order."
As Gilotin withdrew, Ambroise turned to gaze out the window at the shadowed silhouette of the church. The moon cast a pale glow over the spires, and for a moment, he thought he saw a figure moving among the statues—an old woman with a tattered shawl. He blinked, and the vision was gone, leaving him to wonder if the strain of recent events was affecting his senses.
Meanwhile, in his own sparse quarters, Father Laurent paced restlessly. The sermon he'd prepared for the coming Sunday lay untouched on his desk, the words of unity and faith now ringing hollow in his ears. His gaze kept drifting to the small leather folio hidden beneath his straw mattress—carefully hand-copied pages from Ambroise's ledger, damning in their implications.
Laurent had not sought out this information, but it had fallen into his hands through a series of events he could only attribute to divine providence—or perhaps a more earthly form of intervention. The pages spoke of financial improprieties of church funds used for purposes that, while not entirely profane, certainly skirted the edges of propriety.
"Lord," Laurent whispered, sinking to his knees beside his bed, "guide me in this. Show me the path of righteousness."
But as he prayed, he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. A chill ran down his spine as he recalled Madame Discorde's words: "How far are you willing to go to see your vision realized?"
The next day dawned grey and misty, the kind of morning that seemed to muffle sounds and blur the lines between dream and waking. As Laurent made his way to the church for morning Mass, he was startled to find Ambroise waiting for him in the sacristy.
"Father Laurent," Ambroise began, his tone formal but devoid of its usual hostility. "I believe we must speak."
Laurent nodded cautiously. "Of course, Father Ambroise. What troubles you?"
Ambroise took a deep breath, seeming to gather his thoughts. "We have allowed our differences to overshadow our shared mission. The Feast of Saint Sulpice approaches, and it is imperative that we present a united front to our flock."
Laurent felt a surge of hope tempered by wariness. "I agree wholeheartedly. Our personal disagreements should not detract from the solemnity of the occasion."
"Then perhaps," Ambroise suggested, his voice softening, "we might collaborate on the feast day services. Combine the reverence of our traditions with the... vitality you bring to your sermons."
A genuine smile touched Laurent's lips. "I would welcome that, Father Ambroise. Truly."
As they began discussing the details of the upcoming feast, neither man noticed the fleeting shadow that passed across the doorway—Madame Discorde, her face a mask of annoyance. She had not anticipated such a reconciliation.
In the days that followed, an uneasy truce settled over Saint-Sulpice. Ambroise and Laurent were often seen in quiet conferences, heads bent over liturgical texts, or in deep discussion about the arrangement of the choir. Once a point of such contention, the lectern now stood as a silent witness to their collaborative efforts.
Sensing the shift in atmosphere, the congregation responded with cautious optimism. Attendance at daily Mass increased, and a steady stream of penitents sought guidance and absolution in the confessional.
Yet beneath this façade of harmony, currents of tension still swirled. Madame Discorde, thwarted in her initial attempts to sow discord, redoubled her efforts. She whispered doubts into receptive ears, reminding parishioners of past slights and lingering resentments.
"It's all very well for them to play at unity now," she murmured to a group of older women after a particularly moving sermon. "But can years of neglect truly be forgotten so easily?"
To others, she spoke of Laurent's ambition, hinting that his collaboration with Ambroise was merely a stepping stone to greater power within the Church hierarchy.
As the Feast of Saint Sulpice drew near, the pressure mounted. Ambroise and Laurent felt the weight of expectations—from the congregation, each other, and their own consciences.
The evening before the feast, Laurent found himself again before the controversial lectern, lost in thought. The church was quiet, the last echoes of Vespers long faded. A soft cough behind him made him start.
"Troubles of the spirit, Father Laurent?" It was Gilotin, his face a mask of quiet concern.
Laurent managed a wan smile. "Perhaps. I find myself at a crossroads, Gilotin. The path forward is... unclear."
Gilotin nodded sagely. "The Lord often tests us in ways we do not expect. But remember, even in the darkest night, the dawn will come."
As Gilotin turned to leave, Laurent called out, "Gilotin? You've served this church for many years. Have you ever... doubted?"
The old steward paused, his hand on the door. "Doubt is the shadow cast by faith, Father. Without one, we cannot truly appreciate the other." With that cryptic remark, he slipped away, leaving Laurent alone with his thoughts.
Across the church grounds, Ambroise, too, wrestled with his conscience. The ledger that had caused him so much anxiety lay open before him, its pages a testament to years of small compromises and rationalizations. He knew that Laurent suspected something—the young priest's pointed remarks about financial transparency had not gone unnoticed.
With a heavy sigh, Ambroise reached for his quill. Perhaps it was time to set things right, to face the consequences of his actions. As he began to write a confession of sorts, he felt a weight lifting from his shoulders.
Neither priest slept well that night. Each was grappling with decisions that would shape not only their own futures but also the fate of Saint-Sulpice itself.
As dawn broke on the Feast of Saint Sulpice, the air was thick with anticipation. The bells of Saint-Sulpice rang out across the city, calling the faithful to worship. Inside, the church was resplendent, adorned with candles and garlands. The congregation filled the pews, a palpable sense of excitement mingling with an undercurrent of tension.
Ambroise and Laurent emerged from the sacristy together, their vestments gleaming in the candlelight. As they approached the lectern—that symbol of both discord and reconciliation—a hush fell over the assembly.
As Ambroise and Laurent stood side by side at the lectern, the congregation held its collective breath. The two priests exchanged a glance, years of misunderstanding and recent reconciliation passing between them in that brief moment.
Ambroise spoke first, his voice resonant and clear. "My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we gather today to celebrate our patron, Saint Sulpice. His life of service and devotion guides us still."
Laurent continued seamlessly, "And as we honor his memory, let us also remember that the Church, like our faith, is ever-living, ever-growing."
Their voices blended as they led the opening prayers, a harmony that spoke of unity forged through adversity. The service proceeded, each priest playing his part with grace and humility.
During the sermon, Laurent spoke of unity and the strength found in embracing both tradition and renewal. His words, once a source of contention, now seemed to bridge the gap between old and new. Ambroise followed with reflections on the enduring foundations of faith that support such growth, his usual sternness softened by a new understanding.
A subtle movement caught Laurent's eye as the service reached its pinnacle. Madame Discorde stood at the rear of the church, her expression unreadable. She inclined her head ever so slightly before turning to leave, the soft tap of her cane lost in the swell of the choir's voices.
The Mass concluded with a hymn that lifted the spirits of all present, the melodies soaring to the vaulted ceiling and seeming to make the very stones of Saint-Sulpice vibrate with joy.
As the congregation filed out, many paused to offer words of appreciation to both priests. The atmosphere was one of renewal and hope, the tensions of recent weeks forgotten in the glow of shared faith.
Once the last parishioner had departed, Ambroise turned to Laurent, his face solemn. "Father Laurent, there is a matter we must discuss. In private, if you please."
Intrigued and slightly apprehensive, Laurent followed Ambroise to the sacristy. There, to his surprise, he found Gilotin waiting, a leather-bound ledger in his hands.
Ambroise took a deep breath. "I owe you—and this parish—an apology and an explanation. This ledger contains records of... certain financial irregularities."
Laurent's hand instinctively moved towards the pocket where he kept his own copied pages, but he restrained himself.
"I have made mistakes," Ambroise continued, his voice heavy with remorse. "In my zeal to maintain our traditions and ensure the parish's stability, I... took liberties with our funds that I should not have."
Laurent listened in stunned silence as Ambroise detailed years of minor misappropriations and accounting sleights of hand. None were overtly malicious, but together, they painted a picture of a man who had lost his way.
When Ambroise finished, Laurent spoke softly. "Thank you for your honesty, Father. I... I must confess that I had suspicions. I even obtained evidence." He produced his own copied pages, laying them on the table.
Ambroise nodded, unsurprised. "I thought as much. Your recent comments about transparency were not subtle, my young friend."
A moment of tense silence followed, broken by Gilotin's gentle cough. "If I may, Fathers. Perhaps this moment of truth can be a new beginning. For both of you and for Saint-Sulpice."
Laurent nodded slowly. "Gilotin is right. We have been given a chance to set things right. To truly lead our flock with integrity and vision."
"But there must be consequences," Ambroise said gravely. "I am prepared to tender my resignation to the Bishop."
"No," Laurent said firmly. "We will face this together. We will make amends, implement stricter financial controls, and use this to rebuild trust—with each other and our congregation."
As the two priests clasped hands, sealing their pact, a sense of true unity settled over them. The path ahead would not be easy, but they would walk it together.
Outside the sacristy, unnoticed by the three men, Madame Discorde listened with a mixture of frustration and grudging respect. Her plans for discord had been foiled, not by grand gestures, but by small acts of honesty and reconciliation.
As she turned to leave, she found her path blocked by an unexpected figure. Bishop Pacifique stood before her, his eyes twinkling with a knowing light.
"My dear Discord," he said softly, "it seems your work here is done."
She narrowed her eyes. "You've been watching all along, haven't you, old friend?"
The Bishop smiled. "Balance must be maintained. Sometimes, a little chaos is necessary to remind us of the value of harmony. But now, I think, it's time for you to seek... other pastures."
Madame Discorde considered for a moment then nodded. Her tattered shawl transformed into a cloak of shadows with a flick of her wrist. "Until next time, Pacifique. The game is eternal, after all."
And with that, she vanished, leaving only the faint scent of brimstone and new possibilities.
Bishop Pacifique turned his attention to the sacristy, where Ambroise, Laurent, and Gilotin were emerging, their faces bearing the look of men who had faced a great trial and emerged stronger for it.
"Gentlemen," the Bishop greeted them warmly. "I believe we have much to discuss about the future of Saint-Sulpice."
As they walked together towards the Bishop's chamber, the afternoon sun streamed through the stained glass windows, bathing the church in a warm, multicolored glow. The controversial lectern stood silent in the nave, no longer a symbol of division but a testament to the power of reconciliation and shared purpose.
Outside, Paris continued its eternal dance of tradition and progress, while within the walls of Saint-Sulpice, a new chapter was beginning—one of honesty, growth, and renewed faith.
Gilotin, following a few steps behind, allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. His role in this drama had been subtle but crucial. As keeper of the church's secrets and facilitator of its transformations, he knew that his work was far from over. But for now, he was content in the knowledge that balance had been restored.
The bells of Saint-Sulpice rang out once more, their joyous peals echoing across the city—a proclamation of hope, of renewal, and of the enduring power of faith to overcome even the deepest of divisions.
The End.
From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this original short story by Gio Marron. Until next time, stay curious.
Do you like what you read but aren’t yet ready or able to get a paid subscription? Then consider a one-time tip at:
https://www.venmo.com/u/TheCogitatingCeviche
Ko-fi.com/thecogitatingceviche
