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 there 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 choeur_ 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.