"A juggler, what a trade! " mocks the sculptor monk, Jean may be his pupil. There is nothing so great as sculp ture. "Ah," says the painter monk, " You forget the brush. Painting is the great art." " No," cries the poet monk, coming up, " the place of honor goes to poetry," " But music ascends straight to heaven," insists a fourth voice. It is the musician monk. The discussion is heated indeed when the priest arrives to still the troubled waters with Latin admonitions.
Jean sits with his head in his hands. " Only I offer nothing to Mary," he sighs pathetically. But comforting Boniface is near. " Do not envy them, Jean," he counsels. " They are proud and Paradise is not for such as they. When I prepare a good repast, do I not do a work as meritorious? I am a sculptor of nougats; a painter in the color of my creams; a capon cooked to perfection is worth a thousand poems; a ravishing symphony is a table where order reigns. But, you see, to please the Virgin I remain quite modest, quite simple." " But, alas, I am too simple. She loves Latin and I know it not." " But she listens to French too," says the reassuring Boniface. He reminds Jean that Jesus greeted with the same smile the magi with their gold and myrrh and frankincense and the poor shep herd who had nothing to bring but an air played upon a reed pipe.
The last words linger in Jean's ears: " The poor shepherd — his reed pipe." What light illumines his soul! The shepherd, the juggler are worth as much to Mary as the king! In the last act is seen the painter monk's new repre sentation of the Virgin placed over the altar. The monks
enter the chapel. Jean is before them, though he does not see them. He is on his knees in humble prayer. His hurdy-gurdy and his juggler's wallet are beside him. " He is mad," whisper the monks watching, " let us warn the priest." They see Jean salute the Virgin. " Give place," he cries in the accustomed words, " It is Jean, king of the jugglers! You prefer, perhaps, a love romance? " he inquires naively. He begins on several, but his memory fails him. " And now do you wish some juggling, some sorcery? Shall devils and griffins be evoked? " He stops ashamed. " It is force of habit. Between us, I do exag gerate," he falters, " the harangue is never absolutely true, you know." He juggles, he dances. The priest comes and would fall upon him but Boniface restrains him. At last, dizzy and exhausted, Jean falls prostrate in profound adoration. The indignant monks are about to precipitate themselves upon him when Boniface points to the Virgin. A light glows in her eyes. A divine smile touches her lips. From the canvas her hands extend over him in a maternal gesture. About them sound the voices of invisible angels.
"A miracle! A miracle! " cry the brotherhood. " Here am I," cries Jean, rapturously, and he falls dying into the arms of the priest. And voices of monks and of angels mingle as his soul takes its flight.