I, Martin Dupin (de la Clairière), had the honour of holding the office
of Maire in the town of Semur, in the Haute Bourgogne, at the time when
the following events occurred. It will be perceived, therefore, that no
one could have more complete knowledge of the facts--at once from my
official position, and from the place of eminence in the affairs of the
district generally which my family has held for many generations--by
what citizen-like virtues and unblemished integrity I will not be vain
enough to specify. Nor is it necessary; for no one who knows Semur can
be ignorant of the position held by the Dupins, from father to son. The
estate La Clairière has been so long in the family that we might very
well, were we disposed, add its name to our own, as so many families in
France do; and, indeed, I do not prevent my wife (whose prejudices I
respect) from making this use of it upon her cards. But, for myself,
_bourgeois_ I was born and _bourgeois_ I mean to die. My residence, like
that of my father and grandfather, is at No. 29 in the Grande Rue,
opposite the Cathedral, and not far from the Hospital of St. Jean. We
inhabit the first floor, along with the _rez-de-chaussée,_ which has
been turned into domestic offices suitable for the needs of the family.
My mother, holding a respected place in my household, lives with us in
the most perfect family union. My wife (_née_ de Champfleurie) is
everything that is calculated to render a household happy; but, alas one
only of our two children survives to bless us. I have thought these
details of my private circumstances necessary, to explain the following
narrative; to which I will also add, by way of introduction, a simple
sketch of the town itself and its general conditions before these
remarkable events occurred.
It was on a summer evening about sunset, the middle of the month of
June, that my attention was attracted by an incident of no importance
which occurred in the street, when I was making my way home, after an
inspection of the young vines in my new vineyard to the left of La
Clairière. All were in perfectly good condition, and none of the many
signs which point to the arrival of the insect were apparent. I had come
back in good spirits, thinking of the prosperity which I was happy to
believe I had merited by a conscientious performance of all my duties. I
had little with which to blame myself: not only my wife and relations,
but my dependants and neighbours, approved my conduct as a man; and even
my fellow-citizens, exacting as they are, had confirmed in my favour the
good opinion which my family had been fortunate enough to secure from
father to son. These thoughts were in my mind as I turned the corner of
the Grande Rue and approached my own house. At this moment the tinkle of
a little bell warned all the bystanders of the procession which was
about to pass, carrying the rites of the Church to some dying person.
Some of the women, always devout, fell on their knees. I did not go so
far as this, for I do not pretend, in these days of progress, to have
retained the same attitude of mind as that which it is no doubt becoming
to behold in the more devout sex; but I stood respectfully out of the
way, and took off my hat, as good breeding alone, if nothing else,
demanded of me. Just in front of me, however, was Jacques Richard,
always a troublesome individual, standing doggedly, with his hat upon
his head and his hands in his pockets, straight in the path of M. le
Curé. There is not in all France a more obstinate fellow. He stood
there, notwithstanding the efforts of a good woman to draw him away, and
though I myself called to him. M. le Curé is not the man to flinch; and
as he passed, walking as usual very quickly and straight, his soutane
brushed against the blouse of Jacques. He gave one quick glance from
beneath his eyebrows at the profane interruption, but he would not
distract himself from his sacred errand at such a moment. It is a sacred
errand when any one, be he priest or layman, carries the best he can
give to the bedside of the dying. I said this to Jacques when M. le Curé
had passed and the bell went tinkling on along the street. 'Jacques,'
said I, 'I do not call it impious, like this good woman, but I call it
inhuman. What! a man goes to carry help to the dying, and you show him
no respect!'
This brought the colour to his face; and I think, perhaps, that he might
have become ashamed of the part he had played; but the women pushed in
again, as they are so fond of doing. 'Oh, M. le Maire, he does not
deserve that you should lose your words upon him!' they cried; 'and,
besides, is it likely he will pay any attention to you when he tries to
stop even the _bon Dieu_?'
'The _bon Dieu!_' cried Jacques. 'Why doesn't He clear the way for
himself? Look here. I do not care one farthing for your _bon Dieu_. Here
is mine; I carry him about with me.' And he took a piece of a hundred
sous out of his pocket (how had it got there?) '_Vive l'argent_' he
said. 'You know it yourself, though you will not say so. There is no
_bon Dieu_ but money. With money you can do anything. _L'argent c'est le
bon Dieu_.'
'Be silent,' I cried, 'thou profane one!' And the women were still more
indignant than I. 'We shall see, we shall see; when he is ill and would
give his soul for something to wet his lips, his _bon Dieu_ will not do
much for him,' cried one; and another said, clasping her hands with a
shrill cry, 'It is enough to make the dead rise out of their graves!'
'The dead rise out of their graves!' These words, though one has heard
them before, took possession of my imagination. I saw the rude fellow go
along the street as I went on, tossing the coin in his hand. One time it
fell to the ground and rang upon the pavement, and he laughed more
loudly as he picked it up. He was walking towards the sunset, and I too,
at a distance after. The sky was full of rose-tinted clouds floating
across the blue, floating high over the grey pinnacles of the Cathedral,
and filling the long open line of the Rue St. Etienne down which he was
going. As I crossed to my own house I caught him full against the light,
in his blue blouse, tossing the big silver piece in the air, and heard
him laugh and shout _'Vive l'argent!_ This is the only _bon Dieu_.'
Though there are many people who live as if this were their sentiment,
there are few who give it such brutal expression; but some of the people
at the corner of the street laughed too. 'Bravo, Jacques!' they cried;
and one said, 'You are right, _mon ami_, the only god to trust in
nowadays.' 'It is a short _credo_, M. le Maire,' said another, who
caught my eye. He saw I was displeased, this one, and his countenance
changed at once.
'Yes, Jean Pierre,' I said, 'it is worse than short--it is brutal. I
hope no man who respects himself will ever countenance it. It is against
the dignity of human nature, if nothing more.'
'Ah, M. le Maire!' cried a poor woman, one of the good ladies of the
market, with entrenchments of baskets all round her, who had been
walking my way; 'ah, M. le Maire! did not I say true? it is enough to
bring the dead out of their graves.'
'That would be something to see,' said Jean Pierre, with a laugh; 'and I
hope, _ma bonne femme_, that if you have any interest with them, you
will entreat these gentlemen to appear before I go away.'
'I do not like such jesting,' said I. 'The dead are very dead and will
not disturb anybody, but even the prejudices of respectable persons
ought to be respected. A ribald like Jacques counts for nothing, but I
did not expect this from you.'
'What would you, M. le Maire?' he said, with a shrug of his shoulders.
'We are made like that. I respect prejudices as you say. My wife is a
good woman, she prays for two--but me! How can I tell that Jacques is
not right after all? A _grosse pièce_ of a hundred sous, one sees that,
one knows what it can do--but for the other!' He thrust up one shoulder
to his ear, and turned up the palms of his hands.
'It is our duty at all times to respect the convictions of others,' I
said, severely; and passed on to my own house, having no desire to
encourage discussions at the street corner. A man in my position is
obliged to be always mindful of the example he ought to set. But I had
not yet done with this phrase, which had, as I have said, caught my ear
and my imagination. My mother was in the great _salle_ of the
_rez-de-chausée,_ as I passed, in altercation with a peasant who had
just brought us in some loads of wood. There is often, it seems to me, a
sort of _refrain_ in conversation, which one catches everywhere as one
comes and goes. Figure my astonishment when I heard from the lips of my
good mother the same words with which that good-for-nothing Jacques
Richard had made the profession of his brutal faith. 'Go!' she cried, in
anger; 'you are all the same. Money is your god. _De grosses pièces_,
that is all you think of in these days.'
'_Eh, bien,_ madame,' said the peasant; 'and if so, what then? Don't you
others, gentlemen and ladies, do just the same? What is there in the
world but money to think of? If it is a question of marriage, you demand
what is the _dot_; if it is a question of office, you ask, Monsieur
Untel, is he rich? And it is perfectly just. We know what money can do;
but as for _le bon Dieu_, whom our grandmothers used to talk about--'
And lo! our _gros paysan_ made exactly the same gesture as Jean Pierre.
He put up his shoulders to his ears, and spread out the palms of his
hands, as who should say, There is nothing further to be said.
Then there occurred a still more remarkable repetition. My mother, as
may be supposed, being a very respectable person, and more or less
_dévote_, grew red with indignation and horror.
'Oh, these poor grandmothers!' she cried; 'God give them rest! It is
enough to make the dead rise out of their graves.'
'Oh, I will answer for _les morts_! they will give nobody any trouble,'
he said with a laugh. I went in and reproved the man severely, finding
that, as I supposed, he had attempted to cheat my good mother in the
price of the wood. Fortunately she had been quite as clever as he was.
She went upstairs shaking her head, while I gave the man to understand
that no one should speak to her but with the profoundest respect in my
house. 'She has her opinions, like all respectable ladies,' I said,
'but under this roof these opinions shall always be sacred.' And, to do
him justice, I will add that when it was put to him in this way
Gros-Jean was ashamed of himself.
When I talked over these incidents with my wife, as we gave each other
the narrative of our day's experiences, she was greatly distressed, as
may be supposed. 'I try to hope they are not so bad as Bonne Maman
thinks. But oh, _mon ami!_' she said, 'what will the world come to if
this is what they really believe?'
'Take courage,' I said; 'the world will never come to anything much
different from what it is. So long as there are _des anges_ like thee to
pray for us, the scale will not go down to the wrong side.'
I said this, of course, to please my Agnès, who is the best of wives;
but on thinking it over after, I could not but be struck with the
extreme justice (not to speak of the beauty of the sentiment) of this
thought. The _bon Dieu_--if, indeed, that great Being is as represented
to us by the Church--must naturally care as much for one-half of His
creatures as for the other, though they have not the same weight in the
world; and consequently the faith of the women must hold the balance
straight, especially if, as is said, they exceed us in point of numbers.
This leaves a little margin for those of them who profess the same
freedom of thought as is generally accorded to men--a class, I must add,
which I abominate from the bottom of my heart.
I need not dwell upon other little scenes which impressed the same idea
still more upon my mind. Semur, I need not say, is not the centre of the
world, and might, therefore, be supposed likely to escape the full
current of worldliness. We amuse ourselves little, and we have not any
opportunity of rising to the heights of ambition; for our town is not
even the _chef-lieu_ of the department,--though this is a subject upon
which I cannot trust myself to speak. Figure to yourself that La
Rochette--a place of yesterday, without either the beauty or the
antiquity of Semur--has been chosen as the centre of affairs, the
residence of M. le Préfet! But I will not enter upon this question. What
I was saying was, that, notwithstanding the fact that we amuse ourselves
but little, that there is no theatre to speak of, little society, few
distractions, and none of those inducements to strive for gain and to
indulge the senses, which exist, for instance, in Paris--that capital of
the world--yet, nevertheless, the thirst for money and for pleasure has
increased among us to an extent which I cannot but consider alarming.
Gros-Jean, our peasant, toils for money, and hoards; Jacques, who is a
cooper and maker of wine casks, gains and drinks; Jean Pierre snatches
at every sous that comes in his way, and spends it in yet worse
dissipations. He is one who quails when he meets my eye; he sins _en
cachette_; but Jacques is bold, and defies opinion; and Gros-Jean is
firm in the belief that to hoard money is the highest of mortal
occupations. These three are types of what the population is at Semur.
The men would all sell their souls for a _grosse pièce_ of fifty
sous--indeed, they would laugh, and express their delight that any one
should believe them to love souls, if they could but have a chance of
selling them; and the devil, who was once supposed to deal in that
commodity, would be very welcome among us. And as for the _bon
Dieu--pouff!_ that was an affair of the grandmothers--_le bon Dieu c'est
l'argent_. This is their creed. I was very near the beginning of my
official year as Maire when my attention was called to these matters as
I have described above. A man may go on for years keeping quiet
himself--keeping out of tumult, religious or political--and make no
discovery of the general current of feeling; but when you are forced to
serve your country in any official capacity, and when your eyes are
opened to the state of affairs around you, then I allow that an
inexperienced observer might well cry out, as my wife did, 'What will
become of the world?' I am not prejudiced myself--unnecessary to say
that the foolish scruples of the women do not move me. But the devotion
of the community at large to this pursuit of gain-money without any
grandeur, and pleasure without any refinement--that is a thing which
cannot fail to wound all who believe in human nature. To be a
millionaire--that, I grant, would be pleasant. A man as rich as Monte
Christo, able to do whatever he would, with the equipage of an English
duke, the palace of an Italian prince, the retinue of a Russian
noble--he, indeed, might be excused if his money seemed to him a kind of
god. But Gros-Jean, who lays up two sous at a time, and lives on black
bread and an onion; and Jacques, whose _grosse pièce_ but secures him
the headache of a drunkard next morning--what to them could be this
miserable deity? As for myself, however, it was my business, as Maire
of the commune, to take as little notice as possible of the follies
these people might say, and to hold the middle course between the
prejudices of the respectable and the levities of the foolish. With
this, without more, to think of, I had enough to keep all my faculties
employed.
THE NARRATIVE OF M. LE MAIRE CONTINUED: BEGINNING OF THE LATE REMARKABLE
EVENTS.
I do not attempt to make out any distinct connection between the simple
incidents above recorded, and the extraordinary events that followed. I
have related them as they happened; chiefly by way of showing the state
of feeling in the city, and the sentiment which pervaded the
community--a sentiment, I fear, too common in my country. I need not say
that to encourage superstition is far from my wish. I am a man of my
century, and proud of being so; very little disposed to yield to the
domination of the clerical party, though desirous of showing all just
tolerance for conscientious faith, and every respect for the prejudices
of the ladies of my family. I am, moreover, all the more inclined to be
careful of giving in my adhesion to any prodigy, in consequence of a
consciousness that the faculty of imagination has always been one of my
characteristics. It usually is so, I am aware, in superior minds, and it
has procured me many pleasures unknown to the common herd. Had it been
possible for me to believe that I had been misled by this faculty, I
should have carefully refrained from putting upon record any account of
my individual impressions; but my attitude here is not that of a man
recording his personal experiences only, but of one who is the official
mouthpiece and representative of the commune, and whose duty it is to
render to government and to the human race a true narrative of the very
wonderful facts to which every citizen of Semur can bear witness. In
this capacity it has become my duty so to arrange and edit the different
accounts of the mystery, as to present one coherent and trustworthy
chronicle to the world.
To proceed, however, with my narrative. It is not necessary for me to
describe what summer is in the Haute Bourgogne. Our generous wines, our
glorious fruits, are sufficient proof, without any assertion on my part.
The summer with us is as a perpetual _fête_--at least, before the insect
appeared it was so, though now anxiety about the condition of our vines
may cloud our enjoyment of the glorious sunshine which ripens them
hourly before our eyes. Judge, then, of the astonishment of the world
when there suddenly came upon us a darkness as in the depth of winter,
falling, without warning, into the midst of the brilliant weather to
which we are accustomed, and which had never failed us before in the
memory of man! It was the month of July, when, in ordinary seasons, a
cloud is so rare that it is a joy to see one, merely as a variety upon
the brightness. Suddenly, in the midst of our summer delights, this
darkness came. Its first appearance took us so entirely by surprise that
life seemed to stop short, and the business of the whole town was
delayed by an hour or two; nobody being able to believe that at six
o'clock in the morning the sun had not risen. I do not assert that the
sun did not rise; all I mean to say is that at Semur it was still dark,
as in a morning of winter, and when it gradually and slowly became day
many hours of the morning were already spent. And never shall I forget
the aspect of day when it came. It was like a ghost or pale shadow of
the glorious days of July with which we are usually blessed. The
barometer did not go down, nor was there any rain, but an unusual
greyness wrapped earth and sky. I heard people say in the streets, and I
am aware that the same words came to my own lips: 'If it were not full
summer, I should say it was going to snow.' We have much snow in the
Haute Bourgogne, and we are well acquainted with this aspect of the
skies. Of the depressing effect which this greyness exercised upon
myself personally, greyness exercised upon myself personally, I will not
speak. I have always been noted as a man of fine perceptions, and I was
aware instinctively that such a state of the atmosphere must mean
something more than was apparent on the surface. But, as the danger was
of an entirely unprecedented character, it is not to be wondered at that
I should be completely at a loss to divine what its meaning was. It was
a blight some people said; and many were of opinion that it was caused
by clouds of animalculæ coming, as is described in ancient writings, to
destroy the crops, and even to affect the health of the population. The
doctors scoffed at this; but they talked about malaria, which, as far as
I could understand, was likely to produce exactly the same effect. The
night closed in early as the day had dawned late; the lamps were lighted
before six o'clock, and daylight had only begun about ten! Figure to
yourself, a July day! There ought to have been a moon almost at the
full; but no moon was visible, no stars--nothing but a grey veil of
clouds, growing darker and darker as the moments went on; such I have
heard are the days and the nights in England, where the seafogs so often
blot out the sky. But we are unacquainted with anything of the kind in
our _plaisant pays de France_. There was nothing else talked of in Semur
all that night, as may well be imagined. My own mind was extremely
uneasy. Do what I would, I could not deliver myself from a sense of
something dreadful in the air which was neither malaria nor animalculæ,
I took a promenade through the streets that evening, accompanied by M.
Barbou, my _adjoint_, to make sure that all was safe; and the darkness
was such that we almost lost our way, though we were both born in the
town and had known every turning from our boyhood. It cannot be denied
that Semur is very badly lighted. We retain still the lanterns slung by
cords across the streets which once were general in France, but which,
in most places, have been superseded by the modern institution of gas.
Gladly would I have distinguished my term of office by bringing gas to
Semur. But the expense would have been great, and there were a hundred
objections. In summer generally, the lanterns were of little consequence
because of the brightness of the sky; but to see them now, twinkling
dimly here and there, making us conscious how dark it was, was strange
indeed. It was in the interests of order that we took our round, with a
fear, in my mind at least, of I knew not what. M. l'Adjoint said
nothing, but no doubt he thought as I did.
While we were thus patrolling the city with a special eye to the
prevention of all seditious assemblages, such as are too apt to take
advantage of any circumstances that may disturb the ordinary life of a
city, or throw discredit on its magistrates, we were accosted by Paul
Lecamus, a man whom I have always considered as something of a
visionary, though his conduct is irreproachable, and his life
honourable and industrious. He entertains religious convictions of a
curious kind; but, as the man is quite free from revolutionary
sentiments, I have never considered it to be my duty to interfere with
him, or to investigate his creed. Indeed, he has been treated generally
in Semur as a dreamer of dreams--one who holds a great many
impracticable and foolish opinions--though the respect which I always
exact for those whose lives are respectable and worthy has been a
protection to hire. He was, I think, aware that he owed something to my
good offices, and it was to me accordingly that he addressed himself.
'Good evening, M. le Maire,' he said; 'you are groping about, like
myself, in this strange night.'
'Good evening M. Paul,' I replied. 'It is, indeed, a strange night. It
indicates, I fear, that a storm is coming.'
M. Paul shook his head. There is a solemnity about even his ordinary
appearance. He has a long face, pale, and adorned with a heavy, drooping
moustache, which adds much to the solemn impression made by his
countenance. He looked at me with great gravity as he stood in the
shadow of the lamp, and slowly shook his head.
'You do not agree with me? Well! the opinion of a man like M. Paul
Lecamus is always worthy to be heard.'
'Oh!' he said, 'I am called visionary. I am not supposed to be a
trustworthy witness. Nevertheless, if M. Le Maire will come with me, I
will show him something that is very strange--something that is almost
more wonderful than the darkness--more strange,' he went on with great
earnestness, 'than any storm that ever ravaged Burgundy.'
'That is much to say. A tempest now when the vines are in full
bearing--'
'Would be nothing, nothing to what I can show you. Only come with me to
the Porte St. Lambert.'
'If M. le Maire will excuse me,' said M. Barbou, 'I think I will go
home. It is a little cold, and you are aware that I am always afraid of
the damp.' In fact, our coats were beaded with a cold dew as in
November, and I could not but acknowledge that my respectable colleague
had reason. Besides, we were close to his house, and he had, no doubt,
the sustaining consciousness of having done everything that was really
incumbent upon him. 'Our ways lie together as far as my house,' he said,
with a slight chattering of his teeth. No doubt it was the cold. After
we had walked with him to his door, we proceeded to the Porte St.
Lambert. By this time almost everybody had re-entered their houses. The
streets were very dark, and they were also very still. When we reached
the gates, at that hour of the night, we found them shut as a matter of
course. The officers of the _octroi_ were standing close together at the
door of their office, in which the lamp was burning. The very lamp
seemed oppressed by the heavy air; it burnt dully, surrounded with a
yellow haze. The men had the appearance of suffering greatly from cold.
They received me with a satisfaction which was very gratifying to me.
'At length here is M. le Maire himself,' they said.
'My good friends,' said I, 'you have a cold post to-night. The weather
has changed in the most extraordinary way. I have no doubt the
scientific gentlemen at the Musée will be able to tell us all about
it--M. de Clairon--'
'Not to interrupt M. le Maire,' said Riou, of the _octroi_, 'I think
there is more in it than any scientific gentleman can explain.'
'Ah! You think so. But they explain everything,' I said, with a smile.
'They tell us how the wind is going to blow.'
As I said this, there seemed to pass us, from the direction of the
closed gates, a breath of air so cold that I could not restrain a
shiver. They looked at each other. It was not a smile that passed
between them--they were too pale, too cold, to smile but a look of
intelligence. 'M. le Maire,' said one of them, 'perceives it too;' but
they did not shiver as I did. They were like men turned into ice who
could feel no more.
'It is, without doubt, the most extraordinary weather,' I said. My teeth
chattered like Barbou's. It was all I could do to keep myself steady. No
one made any reply; but Lecamus said, 'Have the goodness to open the
little postern for foot-passengers: M. le Maire wishes to make an
inspection outside.'
Upon these words, Riou, who knew me well, caught me by the arm. 'A
thousand pardons,' he said, 'M. le Maire; but I entreat you, do not go.
Who can tell what is outside? Since this morning there is something very
strange on the other side of the gates. If M. le Maire would listen to
me, he would keep them shut night and day till _that_ is gone, he would
not go out into the midst of it. _Mon Dieu!_ a man may be brave. I know
the courage of M. le Maire; but to march without necessity into the
jaws of hell: _mon Dieu!_' cried the poor man again. He crossed himself,
and none of us smiled. Now a man may sign himself at the church
door--one does so out of respect; but to use that ceremony for one's own
advantage, before other men, is rare--except in the case of members of a
very decided party. Riou was not one of these. He signed himself in
sight of us all, and not one of us smiled.
The other was less familiar--he knew me only in my public capacity--he
was one Gallais of the Quartier St. Médon. He said, taking off his hat:
'If I were M. le Maire, saving your respect, I would not go out into an
unknown danger with this man here, a man who is known as a pietist, as a
clerical, as one who sees visions--'
'He is not a clerical, he is a good citizen,' I said; 'come, lend us
your lantern. Shall I shrink from my duty wherever it leads me? Nay, my
good friends, the Maire of a French commune fears neither man nor devil
in the exercise of his duty. M. Paul, lead on.' When I said the word
'devil' a spasm of alarm passed over Riou's face. He crossed himself
again. This time I could not but smile. 'My little Riou,' I said, 'do
you know that you are a little imbecile with your piety? There is a time
for everything.'
'Except religion, M. le Maire; that is never out of place,' said
Gallais.
I could not believe my senses. 'Is it a conversion?' I said. 'Some of
our Carmes déchaussés must have passed this way.'
'M. le Maire will soon see other teachers more wonderful than the Carmes
déchaussés,' said Lecamus. He went and took down the lantern from its
nail, and opened the little door. When it opened, I was once more
penetrated by the same icy breath; once, twice, thrice, I cannot tell
how many times this crossed me, as if some one passed. I looked round
upon the others--I gave way a step. I could not help it. In spite of me,
the hair seemed to rise erect on my head. The two officers stood close
together, and Riou, collecting his courage, made an attempt to laugh.
'M. le Maire perceives,' he said, his lips trembling almost too much to
form the words, 'that the winds are walking about.' 'Hush, for God's
sake!' said the other, grasping him by the arm.
This recalled me to myself; and I followed Lecamus, who stood waiting
for me holding the door a little ajar. He went on strangely, like--I can
use no other words to express it--a man making his way in the face of a
crowd, a thing very surprising to me. I followed him close; but the
moment I emerged from the doorway something caught my breath. The same
feeling seized me also. I gasped; a sense of suffocation came upon me; I
put out my hand to lay hold upon my guide. The solid grasp I got of his
arm re-assured me a little, and he did not hesitate, but pushed his way
on. We got out clear of the gate and the shadow of the wall, keeping
close to the little watch-tower on the west side. Then he made a pause,
and so did I. We stood against the tower and looked out before us. There
was nothing there. The darkness was great, yet through the gloom of the
night I could see the division of the road from the broken ground on
either side; there was nothing there. I gasped, and drew myself up close
against the wall, as Lecamus had also done. There was in the air, in the
night, a sensation the most strange I have ever experienced. I have felt
the same thing indeed at other times, in face of a great crowd, when
thousands of people were moving, rustling, struggling, breathing around
me, thronging all the vacant space, filling up every spot. This was the
sensation that overwhelmed me here--a crowd: yet nothing to be seen but
the darkness, the indistinct line of the road. We could not move for
them, so close were they round us. What do I say? There was
nobody--nothing--not a form to be seen, not a face but his and mine. I
am obliged to confess that the moment was to me an awful moment. I
could not speak. My heart beat wildly as if trying to escape from my
breast--every breath I drew was with an effort. I clung to Lecamus with
deadly and helpless terror, and forced myself back upon the wall,
crouching against it; I did not turn and fly, as would have been
natural. What say I? _did_ not! I _could_ not! they pressed round us so.
Ah! you would think I must be mad to use such words, for there was
nobody near me--not a shadow even upon the road.
Lecamus would have gone farther on; he would have pressed his way boldly
into the midst; but my courage was not equal to this. I clutched and
clung to him, dragging myself along against the wall, my whole mind
intent upon getting back. I was stronger than he, and he had no power to
resist me. I turned back, stumbling blindly, keeping my face to that
crowd (there was no one), but struggling back again, tearing the skin
off my hands as I groped my way along the wall. Oh, the agony of seeing
the door closed! I have buffeted my way through a crowd before now, but
I may say that I never before knew what terror was. When I fell upon the
door, dragging Lecamus with me, it opened, thank God! I stumbled in,
clutching at Riou with my disengaged hand, and fell upon the floor of
the _octroi_, where they thought I had fainted. But this was not the
case. A man of resolution may give way to the overpowering sensations of
the moment. His bodily faculties may fail him; but his mind will not
fail. As in every really superior intelligence, my forces collected for
the emergency. While the officers ran to bring me water, to search for
the eau-de vie which they had in a cupboard, I astonished them all by
rising up, pale, but with full command of myself. 'It is enough,' I
said, raising my hand. 'I thank you, Messieurs, but nothing more is
necessary;' and I would not take any of their restoratives. They were
impressed, as was only natural, by the sight of my perfect
self-possession: it helped them to acquire for themselves a demeanour
befitting the occasion; and I felt, though still in great physical
weakness and agitation, the consoling consciousness of having fulfilled
my functions as head of the community.
'M. le Maire has seen a----what there is outside?' Riou cried,
stammering in his excitement; and the other fixed upon me eyes which
were hungering with eagerness--if, indeed, it is permitted to use such
words.
'I have seen--nothing, Riou,' I said.
They looked at me with the utmost wonder. 'M. le Maire has
seen--nothing?' said Riou. 'Ah, I see! you say so to spare us. We have
proved ourselves cowards; but if you will pardon me, M. le Maire, you,
too, re-entered precipitately--you too! There are facts which may appal
the bravest--but I implore you to tell us what you have seen.'
'I have seen nothing,' I said. As I spoke, my natural calm composure
returned, my heart resumed its usual tranquil beating. 'There is nothing
to be seen--it is dark, and one can perceive the line of the road for
but a little way--that is all. There is nothing to be seen----'
They looked at me, startled and incredulous. They did not know what to
think. How could they refuse to believe me, sitting there calmly raising
my eyes to them, making my statement with what they felt to be an air of
perfect truth? But, then, how account for the precipitate return which
they had already noted, the supposed faint, the pallor of my looks? They
did not know what to think.
And here, let me remark, as in my conduct throughout these remarkable
events, may be seen the benefit, the high advantage, of truth. Had not
this been the truth, I could not have borne the searching of their
looks. But it was true. There was nothing--nothing to be seen; in one
sense, this was the thing of all others which overwhelmed my mind. But
why insist upon these matters of detail to unenlightened men? There was
nothing, and I had seen nothing. What I said was the truth.
All this time Lecamus had said nothing. As I raised myself from the
ground, I had vaguely perceived him hanging up the lantern where it had
been before; now he became distinct to me as I recovered the full
possession of my faculties. He had seated himself upon a bench by the
wall. There was no agitation about him; no sign of the thrill of
departing excitement, which I felt going through my veins as through the
strings of a harp. He was sitting against the wall, with his head
drooping, his eyes cast down, an air of disappointment and despondency
about him--nothing more. I got up as soon as I felt that I could go away
with perfect propriety; but, before I left the place, called him. He got
up when he heard his name, but he did it with reluctance. He came with
me because I asked him to do so, not from any wish of his own. Very
different were the feelings of Riou and Gallais. They did their utmost
to engage me in conversation, to consult me about a hundred trifles, to
ask me with the greatest deference what they ought to do in such and
such cases, pressing close to me, trying every expedient to delay my
departure. When we went away they stood at the door of their little
office close together, looking after us with looks which I found it
difficult to forget; they would not abandon their post; but their faces
were pale and contracted, their eyes wild with anxiety and distress.
It was only as I walked away, hearing my own steps and those of Lecamus
ringing upon the pavement, that I began to realise what had happened.
The effort of recovering my composure, the relief from the extreme
excitement of terror (which, dreadful as the idea is, I am obliged to
confess I had actually felt), the sudden influx of life and strength to
my brain, had pushed away for the moment the recollection of what lay
outside. When I thought of it again, the blood began once more to course
in my veins. Lecamus went on by my side with his head down, the eyelids
drooping over his eyes, not saying a word. He followed me when I called
him: but cast a regretful look at the postern by which we had gone out,
through which I had dragged him back in a panic (I confess it) unworthy
of me. Only when we had left at some distance behind us that door into
the unseen, did my senses come fully back to me, and I ventured to ask
myself what it meant. 'Lecamus,' I said--I could scarcely put my
question into words--'what do you think? what is your idea?--how do you
explain--' Even then I am glad to think I had sufficient power of
control not to betray all that I felt.
'One does not try to explain,' he said slowly; 'one longs to know--that
is all. If M. le Maire had not been--in such haste--had he been willing
to go farther--to investigate----'
'God forbid!' I said; and the impulse to quicken my steps, to get home
and put myself in safety, was almost more than I could restrain. But I
forced myself to go quietly, to measure my steps by his, which were slow
and reluctant, as if he dragged himself away with difficulty from that
which was behind.
What was it? 'Do not ask, do not ask!' Nature seemed to say in my heart.
Thoughts came into my mind in such a dizzy crowd, that the multitude of
them seemed to take away my senses. I put up my hands to my ears, in
which they seemed to be buzzing and rustling like bees, to stop the
sound. When I did so, Lecamus turned and looked at me--grave and
wondering. This recalled me to a sense of my weakness. But how I got
home I can scarcely say. My mother and wife met me with anxiety. They
were greatly disturbed about the hospital of St. Jean, in respect to
which it had been recently decided that certain changes should be made.
The great ward of the hospital, which was the chief establishment for
the patients--a thing which some had complained of as an annoyance
disturbing their rest. So many, indeed, had been the complaints
received, that we had come to the conclusion either that the opening
should be built up, or the office suspended. Against this decision, it
is needless to say, the Sisters of St. Jean were moving heaven and
earth. Equally unnecessary for me to add, that having so decided in my
public capacity, as at once the representative of popular opinion and
its guide, the covert reproaches which were breathed in my presence, and
even the personal appeals made to me, had failed of any result. I
respect the Sisters of St. Jean. They are good women and excellent
nurses, and the commune owes them much. Still, justice must be
impartial; and so long as I retain my position at the head of the
community, it is my duty to see that all have their due. My opinions as
a private individual, were I allowed to return to that humble position,
are entirely a different matter; but this is a thing which ladies,
however excellent, are slow to allow or to understand.
I will not pretend that this was to me a night of rest. In the darkness,
when all is still, any anxiety which may afflict the soul is apt to gain
complete possession and mastery, as all who have had true experience of
life will understand. The night was very dark and very still, the clocks
striking out the hours which went so slowly, and not another sound
audible. The streets of Semur are always quiet, but they were more still
than usual that night. Now and then, in a pause of my thoughts, I could
hear the soft breathing of my Agnès in the adjoining room, which gave me
a little comfort. But this was only by intervals, when I was able to
escape from the grasp of the recollections that held me fast. Again I
seemed to see under my closed eyelids the faint line of the high road
which led from the Porte St. Lambert, the broken ground with its ragged
bushes on either side, and no one--no one there--not a soul, not a
shadow: yet a multitude! When I allowed myself to think of this, my
heart leaped into my throat again, my blood ran in my veins like a river
in flood. I need not say that I resisted this transport of the nerves
with all my might. As the night grew slowly into morning my power of
resistance increased; I turned my back, so to speak, upon my
recollections, and said to myself, with growing firmness, that all
sensations of the body must have their origin in the body. Some
derangement of the system easily explainable, no doubt, if one but held
the clue--must have produced the impression which otherwise it would be
impossible to explain. As I turned this over and over in my mind,
carefully avoiding all temptations to excitement--which is the only
wise course in the case of a strong impression on the nerves--I
gradually became able to believe that this was the cause. It is one of
the penalties, I said to myself, which one has to pay for an
organisation more finely tempered than that of the crowd.
This long struggle with myself made the night less tedious, though,
perhaps, more terrible; and when at length I was overpowered by sleep,
the short interval of unconsciousness restored me like a cordial. I woke
in the early morning, feeling almost able to smile at the terrors of the
night. When one can assure oneself that the day has really begun, even
while it is yet dark, there is a change of sensation, an increase of
strength and courage. One by one the dark hours went on. I heard them
pealing from the Cathedral clock--four, five, six, seven--all dark,
dark. I had got up and dressed before the last, but found no one else
awake when I went out--no one stirring in the house,--no one moving in
the street. The Cathedral doors were shut fast, a thing I have never
seen before since I remember. Get up early who will, Père Laserques the
sacristan is always up still earlier. He is a good old man, and I have
often heard him say God's house should be open first of all houses, in
case there might be any miserable ones about who had found no shelter in
the dwellings of men. But the darkness had cheated even Père Laserques.
To see those great doors closed which stood always open gave me a
shiver, I cannot well tell why. Had they been open, there was an
inclination in my mind to have gone in, though I cannot tell why; for I
am not in the habit of attending mass, save on Sunday to set an example.
There were no shops open, not a sound about. I went out upon the
ramparts to the Mont St. Lambert, where the band plays on Sundays. In
all the trees there was not so much as the twitter of a bird. I could
hear the river flowing swiftly below the wall, but I could not see it,
except as something dark, a ravine of gloom below, and beyond the walls
I did not venture to look. Why should I look? There was nothing,
nothing, as I knew. But fancy is so uncontrollable, and one's nerves so
little to be trusted, that it was a wise precaution to refrain. The
gloom itself was oppressive enough; the air seemed to creep with
apprehensions, and from time to time my heart fluttered with a sick
movement, as if it would escape from my control. But everything was
still, still as the dead who had been so often in recent days called out
of their graves by one or another. 'Enough to bring the dead out of
their graves.' What strange words to make use of! It was rather now as
if the world had become a grave in which we, though living, were held
fast.
Soon after this the dark world began to lighten faintly, and with the
rising of a little white mist, like a veil rolling upwards, I at last
saw the river and the fields beyond. To see anything at all lightened
my heart a little, and I turned homeward when this faint daylight
appeared. When I got back into the street, I found that the people at
last were stirring. They had all a look of half panic, half shame upon
their faces. Many were yawning and stretching themselves. 'Good morning,
M. le Maire,' said one and another; 'you are early astir.' 'Not so early
either,' I said; and then they added, almost every individual, with a
look of shame, 'We were so late this morning; we overslept
ourselves--like yesterday. The weather is extraordinary.' This was
repeated to me by all kinds of people. They were half frightened, and
they were ashamed. Père Laserques was sitting moaning on the Cathedral
steps. Such a thing had never happened before. He had not rung the bell
for early mass; he had not opened the Cathedral; he had not called M. le
Curé. 'I think I must be going out of my senses,' he said; 'but then, M.
le Maire, the weather! Did anyone ever see such weather? I think there
must be some evil brewing. It is not for nothing that the seasons
change--that winter comes in the midst of summer.'
After this I went home. My mother came running to one door when I
entered, and my wife to another. '_O mon fils!_' and '_O mon ami!_' they
said, rushing upon me. They wept, these dear women. I could not at first
prevail upon them to tell me what was the matter. At last they confessed
that they believed something to have happened to me, in punishment for
the wrong done to the Sisters at the hospital. 'Make haste, my son, to
amend this error,' my mother cried, 'lest a worse thing befall us!' And
then I discovered that among the women, and among many of the poor
people, it had come to be believed that the darkness was a curse upon us
for what we had done in respect to the hospital. This roused me to
indignation. 'If they think I am to be driven from my duty by their
magic,' I cried; 'it is no better than witchcraft!' not that I believed
for a moment that it was they who had done it. My wife wept, and my
mother became angry with me; but when a thing is duty, it is neither
wife nor mother who will move me out of my way.
It was a miserable day. There was not light enough to see
anything--scarcely to see each other's faces; and to add to our alarm,
some travellers arriving by the diligence (we are still three leagues
from a railway, while that miserable little place, La Rochette, being
the _chef-lieu,_ has a terminus) informed me that the darkness only
existed in Semur and the neighbourhood, and that within a distance of
three miles the sun was shining. The sun was shining! was it possible?
it seemed so long since we had seen the sunshine; but this made our
calamity more mysterious and more terrible. The people began to gather
into little knots in the streets to talk of the strange thing that was
happening In the course of the day M. Barbou came to ask whether I did
not think it would be well to appease the popular feeling by conceding
what they wished to the Sisters of the hospital. I would not hear of it.
'Shall we own that we are in the wrong? I do not think we are in the
wrong,' I said, and I would not yield. 'Do you think the good Sisters
have it in their power to darken the sky with their incantations?' M.
l'Adjoint shook his head. He went away with a troubled countenance; but
then he was not like myself, a man of natural firmness. All the efforts
that were employed to influence him were also employed with me; but to
yield to the women was not in my thoughts.
We are now approaching, however, the first important incident in this
narrative. The darkness increased as the afternoon came on; and it
became a kind of thick twilight, no lighter than many a night. It was
between five and six o'clock, just the time when our streets are the
most crowded, when, sitting at my window, from which I kept a watch
upon the Grande Rue, not knowing what might happen--I saw that some
fresh incident had taken place. Very dimly through the darkness I
perceived a crowd, which increased every moment, in front of the
Cathedral. After watching it for a few minutes, I got my hat and went
out. The people whom I saw--so many that they covered the whole middle
of the _Place_, reaching almost to the pavement on the other side--had
their heads all turned towards the Cathedral. 'What are you gazing at,
my friend?' I said to one by whom I stood. He looked up at me with a
face which looked ghastly in the gloom. 'Look, M. le Maire!' he said;
'cannot you see it on the great door?'
'I see nothing,' said I; but as I uttered these words I did indeed see
something which was very startling. Looking towards the great door of
the Cathedral, as they all were doing, it suddenly seemed to me that I
saw an illuminated placard attached to it, headed with the word
'_Sommation_' in gigantic letters. '_Tiens!_' I cried; but when I
looked again there was nothing. 'What is this? it is some witchcraft!' I
said, in spite of myself. 'Do you see anything, Jean Pierre?'
'M. le Maire,' he said, 'one moment one sees something--the next, one
sees nothing. Look! it comes again.' I have always considered myself a
man of courage, but when I saw this extraordinary appearance the panic
which had seized upon me the former night returned, though in another
form. Fly I could not, but I will not deny that my knees smote together.
I stood for some minutes without being able to articulate a word--which,
indeed, seemed the case with most of those before me. Never have I seen
a more quiet crowd. They were all gazing, as if it was life or death
that was set before them--while I, too, gazed with a shiver going over
me. It was as I have seen an illumination of lamps in a stormy night;
one moment the whole seems black as the wind sweeps over it, the next
it springs into life again; and thus you go on, by turns losing and
discovering the device formed by the lights. Thus from moment to moment
there appeared before us, in letters that seemed to blaze and flicker,
something that looked like a great official placard.
'_Sommation!_'--this was how it was headed. I read a few words at a
time, as it came and went; and who can describe the chill that ran
through my veins as I made it out? It was a summons to the people of
Semur by name--myself at the head as Maire (and I heard afterwards that
every man who saw it saw his own name, though the whole _façade_ of the
Cathedral would not have held a full list of all the people of
Semur)--to yield their places, which they had not filled aright, to
those who knew the meaning of life, being dead. NOUS AUTRES MORTS--these
were the words which blazed out oftenest of all, so that every one saw
them. And 'Go!' this terrible placard said--'Go! leave this place to us
who know the true signification of life.' These words I remember, but
not the rest; and even at this moment it struck me that there was no
explanation, nothing but this _vraie signification de la vie._ I felt
like one in a dream: the light coming and going before me; one word,
then another, appearing--sometimes a phrase like that I have quoted,
blazing out, then dropping into darkness. For the moment I was struck
dumb; but then it came back to my mind that I had an example to give,
and that for me, eminently a man of my century, to yield credence to a
miracle was something not to be thought of. Also I knew the necessity of
doing something to break the impression of awe and terror on the mind of
the people. 'This is a trick,' I cried loudly, that all might hear. 'Let
some one go and fetch M. de Clairon from the Musée. He will tell us how
it has been done.' This, boldly uttered, broke the spell. A number of
pale faces gathered round me. 'Here is M. le Maire--he will clear it
up,' they cried, making room for me that I might approach nearer. 'M.
le Maire is a man of courage--he has judgment. Listen to M. le Maire.'
It was a relief to everybody that I had spoken. And soon I found myself
by the side of M. le Curé, who was standing among the rest, saying
nothing, and with the air of one as much bewildered as any of us. He
gave me one quick look from under his eyebrows to see who it was that
approached him, as was his way, and made room for me, but said nothing.
I was in too much emotion myself to keep silence--indeed, I was in that
condition of wonder, alarm, and nervous excitement, that I had to speak
or die; and there seemed an escape from something too terrible for flesh
and blood to contemplate in the idea that there was trickery here. 'M.
le Curé,' I said, 'this is a strange ornament that you have placed on
the front of your church. You are standing here to enjoy the effect. Now
that you have seen how successful it has been, will not you tell me in
confidence how it is done?'
I am conscious that there was a sneer in my voice, but I was too much
excited to think of politeness. He gave me another of his rapid, keen
looks.
'M. le Maire,' he said, 'you are injurious to a man who is as little
fond of tricks as yourself.'
His tone, his glance, gave me a certain sense of shame, but I could not
stop myself. 'One knows,' I said, 'that there are many things which an
ecclesiastic may do without harm, which are not permitted to an ordinary
layman--one who is an honest man, and no more.'
M. le Curé made no reply. He gave me another of his quick glances, with
an impatient turn of his head. Why should I have suspected him? for no
harm was known of him. He was the Curé, that was all; and perhaps we men
of the world have our prejudices too. Afterwards, however, as we waited
for M. de Clairon--for the crisis was too exciting for personal
resentment--M. le Curé himself let drop something which made it apparent
that it was the ladies of the hospital upon whom his suspicions fell.
'It is never well to offend women, M. le Maire,' he said. 'Women do not
discriminate the lawful from the unlawful: so long as they produce an
effect, it does not matter to them.' This gave me a strange impression,
for it seemed to me that M. le Curé was abandoning his own side.
However, all other sentiments were, as may be imagined, but as shadows
compared with the overwhelming power that held all our eyes and our
thoughts to the wonder before us. Every moment seemed an hour till M. de
Clairon appeared. He was pushed forward through the crowd as by magic,
all making room for him; and many of us thought that when science thus
came forward capable of finding out everything, the miracle would
disappear. But instead of this it seemed to glow brighter than ever.
That great word '_Sommation_' blazed out, so that we saw his figure
waver against the light as if giving way before the flames that
scorched him. He was so near that his outline was marked out dark
against the glare they gave. It was as though his close approach
rekindled every light. Then, with a flicker and trembling, word by word
and letter by letter went slowly out before our eyes.
M. de Clairon came down very pale, but with a sort of smile on his face.
'No, M. le Maire,' he said, 'I cannot see how it is done. It is clever.
I will examine the door further, and try the panels. Yes, I have left
some one to watch that nothing is touched in the meantime, with the
permission of M. le Curé--'
'You have my full permission,' M. le Curé said; and M. de Clairon
laughed, though he was still very pale. 'You saw my name there,' he
said. 'I am amused--I who am not one of your worthy citizens, M. le
Maire. What can Messieurs les Morts of Semur want with a poor man of
science like me? But you shall have my report before the evening is
out.'
With this I had to be content. The darkness which succeeded to that
strange light seemed more terrible than ever. We all stumbled as we
turned to go away, dazzled by it, and stricken dumb, though some kept
saying that it was a trick, and some murmured exclamations with voices
full of terror. The sound of the crowd breaking up was like a regiment
marching--all the world had been there. I was thankful, however, that
neither my mother nor my wife had seen anything; and though they were
anxious to know why I was so serious, I succeeded fortunately in keeping
the secret from them.
M. de Clairon did not appear till late, and then he confessed to me he
could make nothing of it. 'If it is a trick (as of course it must be),
it has been most cleverly done,' he said; and admitted that he was
baffled altogether. For my part, I was not surprised. Had it been the
Sisters of the hospital, as M. le Curé thought, would they have let the
opportunity pass of preaching a sermon to us, and recommending their
doctrines? Not so; here there were no doctrines, nothing but that
pregnant phrase, _la vraie signification de la vie_. This made a more
deep impression upon me than anything else. The Holy Mother herself
(whom I wish to speak of with profound respect), and the saints, and the
forgiveness of sins, would have all been there had it been the Sisters,
or even M. le Curé. This, though I had myself suggested an imposture,
made it very unlikely to my quiet thoughts. But if not an imposture,
what could it be supposed to be?