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CHAPTER VI.
M. LE MAIRE RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE |
WE re-entered by the door for foot-passengers which is by the side of the great Porte St. Lambert.
I will not deny that my heart was, as one may say, in my throat. A man does what is his duty, what his fellow-citizens expect of him; but that is not to say that he renders himself callous to natural emotion. My veins were swollen, the blood coursing through them like a high-flowing river; my tongue was parched and dry. I am not ashamed to admit that from head to foot my body quivered and trembled. I was afraid -- but I went forward; no man can do more. As for M. le Curé he said not a word. If he had any fears he concealed them as I did. But his occupation is with the ghostly and spiritual. To see men die, to accompany them to the verge of the grave, to create for them during the time of their suffering after death (if it is true that they suffer), an interest in heaven, this his profession must necessarily give him courage. My position is very different. I have not made up my mind upon these subjects. When one can believe frankly in all the Church says, many things become simple, which otherwise cause great difficulty in the mind. The mysterious and wonderful then find their natural place in the course of affairs; but when a man thinks for himself, and has to take everything on his own responsibility, and make all the necessary explanations, there is often great difficulty. So many things will not fit into their places, they straggle like weary men on a march. One cannot put them together, or satisfy one's self.
The sun was shining outside the walls when we re-entered Semur; but the first step we took was into a gloom as black as night, which did not re-assure us, it is unnecessary to say. A chill was in the air, of night and mist. We shivered, not with the nerves only but with the cold. And as all was dark, so all was still. I had expected to feel the presence of those who were there, as I had felt the crowd of the invisible before they entered the city. But the air was vacant, there was nothing but darkness and cold. We went on for a little way with a strange fervour of expectation. At each moment, at each step, it seemed to. me that some great call must be made upon my self-possession and courage, some event happen; but there was nothing. All was calm, the houses on either side of the way were open, all but the office of the octroi which was black as night with its closed door. M. le Curé has told me since that he believed Them to be there, though unseen. This idea, however, was not in my mind. I had felt the unseen multitude; but here the air was free, there was no one interposing between us, who breathed as men, and the walls that surrounded us. just within the gate a lamp was burning, hanging to its rope over our heads; and the lights were in the houses as if some one had left them there; they threw a strange glimmer into the darkness, flickering in the wind. By and by as we went on the gloom lessened, and by the time we had reached the Grande Rue, there was a clear steady pale twilight by which we saw everything, as by the light of day.
We stood at the corner of the square and looked round. Although still I heard the beating of my own pulses loudly working in my ears, yet it was less terrible than at first. A city when asleep is wonderful to look on, but in all the closed doors and windows one feels the safety and repose sheltered there which no man can disturb; and the air has in it a sense of life, subdued, yet warm. But here all was open, and all deserted. The house of the miser Grosgain was exposed from the highest to the lowest, but nobody was there to search for what was hidden. The hotel de Bois-Sombre, with its great porte-cochère, always so jealously closed; and my own house, which my mother and wife have always guarded so carefully, that no damp nor breath of night might enter, had every door and window wide open. Desolation seemed seated in all these empty places. I feared to go into my own dwelling. It seemed to me as if the dead must be lying within. Bon Dieu! Not a soul, not a shadow; all vacant in this soft twilight; nothing moving, nothing visible. The great doors of the Cathedral were wide open, and every little entry. How spacious the city looked, how silent, how wonderful! There was room for a squadron to wheel in the great square, but not so much as a bird, not a dog; all pale and empty. We stood for a long time (or it seemed a long time) at the corner, looking right and left. We were afraid to make a step farther. We knew not what to do. Nor could I speak; there was much I wished to say, but something stopped my voice.
At last M. le Curé found utterance. His voice so moved the silence, that at first my heart was faint with fear: it was hoarse, and the sound rolled round the great square like muffled thunder. One did not seem to know what strange faces might rise at the open windows, what terrors might appear. But all he said was, "We are ambassadors in vain."
What was it that followed? My teeth
chattered. I could not hear. It was as if
I said, "Are we indeed too late?
Lecamus must have deceived himself."
To this there came no echo and no
reply, which would be a relief, you may
suppose; but it was not so. It was well-nigh more
appalling, more terrible than the
sound; for though we spoke thus, we did
not believe the place was empty. Those
whom we approached seemed to be wrapping themselves
in silence, invisible, waiting to speak with some
awful purpose
when their time came.
There we stood for some minutes, like
two children, holding each other's hands,
leaning against each other at the corner of
the square -- as helpless as children, waiting
for what should come next. I say it frankly,
my brain and my heart were one throb.
They plunged and beat so wildly that I
could scarcely have heard any other sound.
In this respect I think he was more calm
There was on his face that look of intense
listening which strains the very soul. But
neither he nor I heard anything, not so
much as a whisper. At last, "Let us go
on," I said. We stumbled as we went, with
agitation and fear. We were afraid to turn
our backs to those empty houses, which
seemed to gaze at us with all their empty
windows pale and glaring. Mechanically,
scarce knowing what I was doing, I made
towards my own house.
There was no one there. The rooms
were all open and empty. I went from
one to another, with a sense of expectation
which made my heart faint; but no one was
there, nor anything changed. Yet I do
wrong to say that nothing was changed. In
my library, where I keep my books, where
my father and grandfather conducted their
affairs, like me, one little difference struck
me suddenly, as if some one had dealt me
a blow. The old bureau which my grandfather had
used, at which I remember
standing by his knee, had been drawn from
the corner where I had placed it out of the
way (to make room for the -- furniture I preferred),
and replaced, as in old times, in the
middle of the room. It was nothing; yet
how much was in this! though only myself
could have perceived it. Some of the old
drawers were open, full of old papers. I
glanced over them in my agitation, to see if
there might be any writing, any message
addressed to me; but there was nothing,
nothing but this silent sign of those who
had been here. Naturally M. le Curé,
who kept watch at the door, was unacquainted with the
cause of my emotion.
The last room I entered was my wife's.
Her veil was lying on the white bed, as if
she had gone out that moment, and some
of her ornaments were on the table. It
seemed to me that the atmosphere of
mystery which filled the rest of the house
was not here. A ribbon, a little ring, what
nothings are these? Yet they make even
emptiness sweet. In my Agnès's room
there is a little shrine, more sacred to us
than any altar. There is the picture of our
little Marie. It is covered with a veil, embroidered
with needlework which it is a
wonder to see. Not always can even
Agnès bear to look upon the face of this
angel, whom God has taken from her. She
has worked the little curtain with lilies, with
white and virginal flowers; and no hand,
not even mine, ever draws it aside. What
did I see? The veil was boldly folded
away; the face of the child looked at me
across her mother's bed, and upon the frame
of the picture was laid a branch of olive,
with silvery leaves. I know no more but
that I uttered a great cry, and flung myself
upon my knees before this angel-gift.
What stranger could know what was in my
heart? M. le Curé, my friend, my brother,
came hastily to me, with a pale countenance; but when
he looked at me, he drew
back and turned away his face, and a sob
came from his breast. Never child had
called him father, were it in heaven, were
it on earth. Well I knew whose tender
fingers had placed the branch of olive
there.
I went out of the room and locked the
door. It was just that my wife should find
it where it had been laid.
I put my arm into his as we went
out once more into the street. That
moment had made us brother and brother.
And this union made us more strong.
Besides, the silence and the emptiness
began to grow less terrible to us. We
spoke in our natural voices as we came
out, scarcely knowing how great was the
difference between them and the whispers
which had been all we dared at first to
employ. Yet the sound of these louder
tones scared us when we heard them, for
we were still trembling, not assured of deliverance.
It was he who showed himself
a man, not I; for my heart was overwhelmed, the tears
stood in my eyes, I had
no strength to resist my impressions.
"Martin Dupin," he said suddenly, "it
is
enough. We are frightening ourselves
with shadows. We are afraid even of our
own voices. This must not be. Enough!
Whosoever they were who have been in
Semur, their visitation is over, and they are
gone."
"I think so," I said faintly; "but God
knows." Just then something passed me
as sure as ever man passed me. I started
back out of the way and dropped my friend's
arm, and covered my eyes with my hands.
It was nothing that could be seen: it was
an air, a breath. M. le Curé looked at me
wildly; he was as a man beside himself.
He struck his foot upon the pavement and
gave a loud and bitter cry.
"Is it delusion?" he said, "O my God!
or shall not even this, not even so much as
this be revealed to me?"
To see a man who had so ruled himself,
who had resisted every disturbance and
stood fast when all gave way, moved thus
at the very last to cry out with passion
against that which had been denied to him,
brought me back to myself. How often
had I read it in his eyes before! He --
the priest -- the servant of the unseen -- yet
to all of us lay persons had that been revealed which
was hid from him. A great
pity was within me, and gave me strength.
"Brother," I said, "we are weak. If we
saw heaven opened, could we trust to our
vision now? Our imaginations are masters
of us. So far as mortal eye can see, we
are alone in Semur. Have you forgotten
your psalm, and how you sustained us at
the first? And now, your Cathedral is
open to you, my brother. Lætatus sum," I
said. It was an inspiration from above,
and no thought of mine; for it is well
known, that though deeply respectful, I
have never professed religion. With one
impulse we turned, we went together, as in
a procession, across the silent place, and
up the great steps. We said not a word
to each other of what we meant to do.
All was fair and silent in the holy place;
a breath of incense still in the air; a murmur of
psalms (as one could imagine) far
up in the high roof. There I served, while
he said his mass. It was for my friend
that this impulse came to my mind: but I
was rewarded. The days of my childhood
seemed to come back to me. All trouble,
and care, and mystery, and pain, seemed
left behind. All I could see was the
glimmer on the altar of the great candle-sticks,
the sacred pyx in its shrine, the
chalice, and the book. I was again an
enfant de chur robed in white, like the
angels, no doubt, no disquiet in my soul --
and my father kneeling behind among the
faithful, bowing his head, with a sweetness
which I too knew, being a father, because
it was his child that tinkled the bell and
swung the censer. Never since those days
have I served the mass. My heart grew
soft within me as the heart of a little child.
The voice of M. le Curé was full of tears
-- it swelled out into the air and filled the
vacant place. I knelt behind him on the
steps of the altar and wept.
Then there came a sound that made our
hearts leap in our bosoms. His voice
wavered as if it had been struck by a strong
wind: but he was a brave man, and he
went on. It was the bells of the Cathedral
that pealed out over our heads. In the
midst of the office, while we knelt all alone,
they began to ring as at Easter or some
great festival. At first softly, almost sadly,
like choirs of distant singers, that died
away and were echoed and died again;
then taking up another strain, they rang
out into the sky with hurrying notes and
clang of joy. The effect upon myself was
wonderful. I no longer felt any fear. The
illusion was complete. I was a child again,
serving the mass in my little surplice --
aware that all who loved me were kneeling
behind, that the good God was smiling,
and the Cathedral bells ringing out their
majestic Amen.
M. le Curé came down the altar
steps
when his mass was ended. Together we
put away the vestments and the holy
vessels. Our hearts were soft; the weight
was taken from them. As we came out
the bells were dying away in long and low
echoes, now faint, now louder, like mingled
voices of gladness and regret. And whereas
it had been a pale twilight when we entered,
the clearness of the day had rolled sweetly
in, and now it was fair morning in all the
streets. We did not say a word to each
other, but arm and arm took our way to
the gates, to open to our neighbours, to call
all our fellow-citizens back to Semur.
If I record here an incident of another
kind, it is because of the sequel that
followed. As we passed by the hospital
of St. Jean, we heard distinctly, coming
from within, the accents of a feeble yet
impatient voice. The sound revived for
a moment the troubles that were stilled
within us -- but only for a moment. This
was no visionary voice. It brought a smile
to the grave face of M. le Curé and tempted
me well nigh to laughter, so strangely did
this sensation of the actual, break and disperse the
visionary atmosphere. We went
in without any timidity, with a conscious
relaxation of the great strain upon us. In
a little nook, curtained off from the great
ward, lay a sick man upon his bed. "Is
it M. le Maire?" he said; "à la bonne
heure! I have a complaint to make of the
nurses for the night. They have gone out
to amuse themselves; they take no notice
of poor sick people. They have known
for a week that I could not sleep; but
neither have they given me a sleeping
draught, nor endeavoured to distract me
with cheerful conversation. And to-day,
look you, M. le Maire, not one of the sisters
has come near me!"
"Have you suffered, my poor fellow?"
I said; but he would not go so far as
this.
"I don't want to make complaints, M.
le
Maire; but the sisters do not come themselves as they
used to do. One does not
care to have a strange nurse, when one
knows that if the sisters did their duty ----
But if it does not occur any more I do not
wish it to be thought that I am the one to
complain."
"Do not fear, mon ami," I said. "I
will
say to the Reverend Mother that you have
been left too long alone."
"And listen, M. le Maire,"cried the
man;
"those bells, will they never be done? My
head aches with the din they make. How
can one go to sleep with all that riot in
one's ears?"
We looked at each other, we could not
but smile. So that which is joy and deliverance to
one is vexation to another.
As we went out again into the street the
lingering music of the bells died out, and
(for the first time for all these terrible days
and nights) the great clock struck the hour.
And as the clock struck, the last cloud
rose like a mist and disappeared in flying
vapours, and the full sunshine of noon
burst on Semur.
(End of chapter 6.)
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