The narratives which I have collected from the different eye-witnesses
during the time of my own absence, will show how everything passed while
I, with M. le Curé, was recovering possession of our city. Many have
reported to me verbally the occurrences of the last half-hour before my
return; and in their accounts there are naturally discrepancies, owing
to their different points of view and different ways of regarding the
subject. But all are agreed that a strange and universal slumber had
seized upon all. M. de Bois-Sombre even admits that he, too, was
overcome by this influence. They slept while we were performing our
dangerous and solemn duty in Semur. But when the Cathedral bells began
to ring, with one impulse all awoke; and starting from the places where
they lay, from the shade of the trees and bushes and sheltering hollows,
saw the cloud and the mist and the darkness which had enveloped Semur
suddenly rise from the walls. It floated up into the higher air before
their eyes, then was caught and carried away, and flung about into
shreds upon the sky by a strong wind, of which down below no influence
was felt. They all gazed, not able to get their breath, speechless,
beside themselves with joy, and saw the walls reappear, and the roofs of
the houses, and our glorious Cathedral against the blue sky. They stood
for a moment spell-bound. M. de Bois-Sombre informs me that he was
afraid of a wild rush into the city, and himself hastened to the front
to lead and restrain it; when suddenly a great cry rang through the air,
and some one was seen to fall across the high road, straight in front of
the Porte St. Lambert. M. de Bois-Sombre was at once aware who it was,
for he himself had watched Lecamus taking his place at the feet of my
wife, who awaited my return there. This checked the people in their
first rush towards their homes; and when it was seen that Madame Dupin
had also sunk down fainting on the ground after her more than human
exertions for the comfort of all, there was but one impulse of
tenderness and pity. When I reached the gate on my return, I found my
wife lying there in all the pallor of death, and for a moment my heart
stood still with sudden terror. What mattered Semur to me, if it had
cost me my Agnès? or how could I think of Lecamus or any other, while
she lay between life and death? I had her carried back to our own house.
She was the first to re-enter Semur; and after a time, thanks be to God,
she came back to herself. But Paul Lecamus was a dead man. No need to
carry him in, to attempt unavailing cares. 'He has gone, that one; he
has marched with the others,' said the old doctor, who had served in his
day, and sometimes would use the language of the camp. He cast but one
glance at him, and laid his hand upon his heart in passing. 'Cover his
face,' was all he said.
It is possible that this check was good for the restraint of the crowd.
It moderated the rush with which they returned to their homes. The sight
of the motionless figures stretched out by the side of the way overawed
them. Perhaps it may seem strange, to any one who has known what had
occurred, that the state of the city should have given me great anxiety
the first night of our return. The withdrawal of the oppression and awe
which had been on the men, the return of everything to its natural
state, the sight of their houses unchanged, so that the brain turned
round of these common people, who seldom reflect upon anything, and they
already began to ask themselves was it all a delusion--added to the
exhaustion of their physical condition, and the natural desire for ease
and pleasure after the long strain upon all their faculties--produced an
excitement which might have led to very disastrous consequences.
Fortunately I had foreseen this. I have always been considered to
possess great knowledge of human nature, and this has been matured by
recent events. I sent off messengers instantly to bring home the women
and children, and called around me the men in whom I could most trust.
Though I need not say that the excitement and suffering of the past
three days had told not less upon myself than upon others, I abandoned
all idea of rest. The first thing that I did, aided by my respectable
fellow-townsmen, was to take possession of all _cabarets_ and
wine-shops, allowing indeed the proprietors to return, but preventing
all assemblages within them. We then established a patrol of respectable
citizens throughout the city, to preserve the public peace. I
calculated, with great anxiety, how many hours it would be before my
messengers could react: La Clairière, to bring back the women--for in
such a case the wives are the best guardians, and can exercise an
influence more general and less suspected than that of the magistrates;
but this was not to be hoped for for three or four hours at least.
Judge, then, what was my joy and satisfaction when the sound of wheels
(in itself a pleasant sound, for no wheels had been audible on the
high-road since these events began) came briskly to us from the
distance; and looking out from the watch-tower over the Porte St.
Lambert, I saw the strangest procession. The wine-carts and all the farm
vehicles of La Clairière, and every kind of country waggon, were jolting
along the road, all in a tumult and babble of delicious voices; and from
under the rude canopies and awnings and roofs of vine branches, made up
to shield them from the sun, lo! there were the children like birds in a
nest, one little head peeping over the other. And the cries and songs,
the laughter, and the shoutings! As they came along the air grew sweet,
the world was made new. Many of us, who had borne all the terrors and
sufferings of the past without fainting, now felt their strength fail
them. Some broke out into tears, interrupted with laughter. Some called
out aloud the names of their little ones. We went out to meet them,
every man there present, myself at the head. And I will not deny that a
sensation of pride came over me when I saw my mother stand up in the
first waggon, with all those happy ones fluttering around her. 'My son,'
she said, 'I have discharged the trust that was given me. I bring thee
back the blessing of God.' 'And God bless thee, my mother!' I cried. The
other men, who were fathers, like me, came round me, crowding to kiss
her hand. It is not among the women of my family that you will find
those who abandon their duties.
And then to lift them down in armfuls, those flowers of paradise, all
fresh with the air of the fields, all joyous like the birds! We put them
down by twos and threes, some of us sobbing with joy. And to see them
dispersing hand in hand, running here and there, each to its home,
carrying peace, and love, and gladness, through the streets--that was
enough to make the most serious smile. No fear was in them, or care.
Every haggard man they met--some of them feverish, restless, beginning
to think of riot and pleasure after forced abstinence--there was a new
shout, a rush of little feet, a shower of soft kisses. The women were
following after, some packed into the carts and waggons, pale and worn,
yet happy; some walking behind in groups; the more strong, or the more
eager, in advance, and a long line of stragglers behind. There was
anxiety in their faces, mingled with their joy. How did they know what
they might find in the houses from which they had been shut out? And
many felt, like me, that in the very return, in the relief, there was
danger. But the children feared nothing; they filled the streets with
their dear voices, and happiness came back with them. When I felt my
little Jean's cheek against mine, then for the first time did I know how
much anguish I had suffered--how terrible was parting, and how sweet was
life. But strength and prudence melt away when one indulges one's self,
even in one's dearest affections. I had to call my guardians together,
to put mastery upon myself, that a just vigilance might not be relaxed.
M. de Bois-Sombre, though less anxious than myself, and disposed to
believe (being a soldier) that a little license would do no harm, yet
stood by me; and, thanks to our precautions, all went well.
Before night three parts of the population had returned to Semur, and
the houses were all lighted up as for a great festival. The Cathedral
stood open--even the great west doors, which are only opened on great
occasions--with a glow of tapers gleaming out on every side. As I stood
in the twilight watching, and glad at heart to think that all was going
well, my mother and my wife--still pale, but now recovered from her
fainting and weakness--came out into the great square, leading my little
Jean. They were on their way to the Cathedral, to thank God for their
return. They looked at me, but did not ask me to go with them, those
dear women; they respected my opinions, as I had always respected
theirs. But this silence moved me more than words; there came into my
heart a sudden inspiration. I was still in my scarf of office, which had
been, I say it without vanity, the standard of authority and protection
during all our trouble; and thus marked out as representative of all, I
uncovered myself, after the ladies of my family had passed, and, without
joining them, silently followed with a slow and solemn step. A
suggestion, a look, is enough for my countrymen; those who were in the
Place with me perceived in a moment what I meant. One by one they
uncovered, they put themselves behind me. Thus we made such a procession
as had never been seen in Semur. We were gaunt and worn with watching
and anxiety, which only added to the solemn effect. Those who were
already in the Cathedral, and especially M. le Curé, informed me
afterwards that the tramp of our male feet as we came up the great steps
gave to all a thrill of expectation and awe. It was at the moment of the
exposition of the Sacrament that we entered. Instinctively, in a moment,
all understood--a thing which could happen nowhere but in France, where
intelligence is swift as the breath on our lips. Those who were already
there yielded their places to us, most of the women rising up, making as
it were a ring round us, the tears running down their faces. When the
Sacrament was replaced upon the altar, M. le Curé, perceiving our
meaning, began at once in his noble voice to intone the _Te Deum_.
Rejecting all other music, he adopted the plain song in which all could
join, and with one voice, every man in unison with his brother, we sang
with him. The great Cathedral walls seemed to throb with the sound that
rolled upward, _mâle_ and deep, as no song has ever risen from Semur in
the memory of man. The women stood up around us, and wept and sobbed
with pride and joy. When this wonderful moment was over, and all the
people poured forth out of the Cathedral walls into the soft evening,
with stars shining above, and all the friendly lights below, there was
such a tumult of emotion and gladness as I have never seen before. Many
of the poor women surrounded me, kissed my hand notwithstanding my
resistance, and called upon God to bless me; while some of the older
persons made remarks full of justice and feeling.
'The _bon Dieu_ is not used to such singing,' one of them cried, her old
eyes streaming with tears. 'It must have surprised the saints up in
heaven!'
'It will bring a blessing,' cried another. 'It is not like our little
voices, that perhaps only reach half-way.'
This was figurative language, yet it was impossible to doubt there was
much truth in it. Such a submission of our intellects, as I felt in
determining to make it, must have been pleasing to heaven. The women,
they are always praying; but when we thus presented ourselves to give
thanks, it meant something, a real homage; and with a feeling of
solemnity we separated, aware that we had contented both earth and
heaven.
Next morning there was a great function in the Cathedral, at which the
whole city assisted. Those who could not get admittance crowded upon the
steps, and knelt half way across the Place. It was an occasion long
remembered in Semur, though I have heard many say not in itself so
impressive as the _Te Deum_ on the evening of our return. After this we
returned to our occupations, and life was resumed under its former
conditions in our city.
It might be supposed, however, that the place in which events so
extraordinary had happened would never again be as it was before. Had I
not been myself so closely involved, it would have appeared to me
certain, that the streets, trod once by such inhabitants as those who
for three nights and days abode within Semur, would have always retained
some trace of their presence; that life there would have been more
solemn than in other places; and that those families for whose advantage
the dead had risen out of their graves, would have henceforward carried
about with them some sign of that interposition. It will seem almost
incredible when I now add that nothing of this kind has happened at
Semur. The wonderful manifestation which interrupted our existence has
passed absolutely as if it had never been. We had not been twelve hours
in our houses ere we had forgotten, or practically forgotten, our
expulsion from them. Even myself, to whom everything was so vividly
brought home, I have to enter my wife's room to put aside the curtain
from little Marie's picture, and to see and touch the olive branch
which is there, before I can recall to myself anything that resembles
the feeling with which I re-entered that sanctuary. My grandfather's
bureau still stands in the middle of my library, where I found it on my
return; but I have got used to it, and it no longer affects me.
Everything is as it was; and I cannot persuade myself that, for a time,
I and mine were shut out, and our places taken by those who neither eat
nor drink, and whose life is invisible to our eyes. Everything, I say,
is as it was--every thing goes on as if it would endure for ever. We
know this cannot be, yet it does not move us. Why, then, should the
other move us? A little time, we are aware, and we, too, shall be as
they are--as shadows, and unseen. But neither has the one changed us,
and neither does the other. There was, for some time, a greater respect
shown to religion in Semur, and a more devout attendance at the sacred
functions; but I regret to say this did not continue. Even in my own
case--I say it with sorrow--it did not continue. M. le Curé is an
admirable person. I know no more excellent ecclesiastic. He is
indefatigable in the performance of his spiritual duties; and he has,
besides, a noble and upright soul. Since the days when we suffered and
laboured together, he has been to me as a brother. Still, it is
undeniable that he makes calls upon our credulity, which a man obeys
with reluctance. There are ways of surmounting this; as I see in Agnès
for one, and in M. de Bois-Sombre for another. My wife does not
question, she believes much; and in respect to that which she cannot
acquiesce in, she is silent. 'There are many things I hear you talk of,
Martin, which are strange to me,' she says, 'of myself I cannot believe
in them; but I do not oppose, since it is possible you may have reason
to know better than I; and so with some things that we hear from M. le
Curé.' This is how she explains herself--but she is a woman. It is a
matter of grace to yield to our better judgment. M. de Bois-Sombre has
another way. '_Ma foi_,' he says, 'I have not the time for all your
delicacies, my good people; I have come to see that these things are for
the advantage of the world, and it is not my business to explain them.
If M. le Curé attempted to criticise me in military matters, or thee, my
excellent Martin, in affairs of business, or in the culture of your
vines, I should think him not a wise man; and in like manner, faith and
religion, these are his concern.' Felix de Bois Sombre is an excellent
fellow; but he smells a little of the _mousquetaire_. I, who am neither
a soldier nor a woman, I have hesitations. Nevertheless, so long as I am
Maire of Semur, nothing less than the most absolute respect shall ever
be shown to all truly religious persons, with whom it is my earnest
desire to remain in sympathy and fraternity, so far as that may be.
It seemed, however, a little while ago as if my tenure of this office
would not be long, notwithstanding the services which I am acknowledged,
on every hand, to have done to my fellow-townsmen. It will be remembered
that when M. le Curé and myself found Semur empty, we heard a voice of
complaining from the hospital of St. Jean, and found a sick man who had
been left there, and who grumbled against the Sisters, and accused them
of neglecting him, but remained altogether unaware, in the meantime, of
what had happened in the city. Will it be believed that after a time
this fellow was put faith in as a seer, who had heard and beheld many
things of which we were all ignorant? It must be said that, in the
meantime, there had been a little excitement in the town on the subject
of the chapel in the hospital, to which repeated reference has already
been made. It was insisted on behalf of these ladies that a promise had
been given, taking, indeed, the form of a vow, that, as soon as we were
again in possession of Semur, their full privileges should be restored
to them. Their advocates even went so far as to send to me a deputation
of those who had been nursed in the hospital, the leader of which was
Jacques Richard, who since he has been, as he says, 'converted,' thrusts
himself to the front of every movement.
'Permit me to speak, M. le Maire,' he said; 'me, who was one of those so
misguided as to complain, before the great lesson we have all received.
The mass did not disturb any sick person who was of right dispositions.
I was then a very bad subject, indeed--as, alas! M. le Maire too well
knows. It annoyed me only as all pious observances annoyed me. I am now,
thank heaven, of a very different way of thinking----'
But I would not listen to the fellow. When he was a _mauvais sujet_ he
was less abhorrent to me than now.
The men were aware that when I pronounced myself so distinctly on any
subject, there was nothing more to be said, for, though gentle as a
lamb and open to all reasonable arguments, I am capable of making the
most obstinate stand for principle; and to yield to popular
superstition, is that worthy of a man who has been instructed? At the
same time it raised a great anger in my mind that all that should be
thought of was a thing so trivial. That they should have given
themselves, soul and body, for a little money; that they should have
scoffed at all that was noble and generous, both in religion and in
earthly things; all that was nothing to them. And now they would insult
the great God Himself by believing that all He cared for was a little
mass in a convent chapel. What desecration! What debasement! When I went
to M. le Curé, he smiled at my vehemence. There was pain in his smile,
and it might be indignation; but he was not furious like me.
'They will conquer you, my friend,' he said.
'Never,' I cried. 'Before I might have yielded. But to tell me the
gates of death have been rolled back, and Heaven revealed, and the great
God stooped down from Heaven, in order that mass should be said
according to the wishes of the community in the midst of the sick wards!
They will never make me believe this, if I were to die for it.'
'Nevertheless, they will conquer,' M. le Curé said.
It angered me that he should say so. My heart was sore as if my friend
had forsaken me. And then it was that the worst step was taken in this
crusade of false religion. It was from my mother that I heard of it
first. One day she came home in great excitement, saying that now indeed
a real light was to be shed upon all that had happened to us.
'It appears,' she said, 'that Pierre Plastron was in the hospital all
the time, and heard and saw many wonderful things. Sister Genevieve has
just told me. It is wonderful beyond anything you could believe. He has
spoken with our holy patron himself, St. Lambert, and has received
instructions for a pilgrimage--'
'Pierre Plastron!' I cried; 'Pierre Plastron saw nothing, ma mère. He
was not even aware that anything remarkable had occurred. He complained
to us of the Sisters that they neglected him; he knew nothing more.'
'My son,' she said, looking upon me with reproving eyes, 'what have the
good Sisters done to thee? Why is it that you look so unfavourably upon
everything that comes from the community of St. Jean?'
'What have I to do with the community?' I cried--'when I tell thee,
Maman, that this Pierre Plastron knows nothing! I heard it from the
fellow's own lips, and M. le Curé was present and heard him too. He had
seen nothing, he knew nothing. Inquire of M. le Curé, if you have doubts
of me.'
'I do not doubt you, Martin,' said my mother, with severity, 'when you
are not biassed by prejudice. And, as for M. le Curé, it is well known
that the clergy are often jealous of the good Sisters, when they are not
under their own control.'
Such was the injustice with which we were treated. And next day nothing
was talked of but the revelation of Pierre Plastron. What he had seen
and what he had heard was wonderful. All the saints had come and talked
with him, and told him what he was to say to his townsmen. They told him
exactly how everything had happened: how St. Jean himself had interfered
on behalf of the Sisters, and how, if we were not more attentive to the
duties of religion, certain among us would be bound hand and foot and
cast into the jaws of hell. That I was one, nay the chief, of these
denounced persons, no one could have any doubt. This exasperated me; and
as soon as I knew that this folly had been printed and was in every
house, I hastened to M. le Curé, and entreated him in his next Sunday's
sermon to tell the true story of Pierre Plastron, and reveal the
imposture. But M. le Curé shook his head. 'It will do no good,' he said.
'But how no good?' said I. 'What good are we looking for? These are
lies, nothing but lies. Either he has deceived the poor ladies basely,
or they themselves--but this is what I cannot believe.'
'Dear friend,' he said, 'compose thyself. Have you never discovered yet
how strong is self-delusion? There will be no lying of which they are
aware. Figure to yourself what a stimulus to the imagination to know
that he was here, actually here. Even I--it suggests a hundred things to
me. The Sisters will have said to him (meaning no evil, nay meaning the
edification of the people), "But, Pierre, reflect! You must have seen
this and that. Recall thy recollections a little." And by degrees Pierre
will have found out that he remembered--more than could have been
hoped.'
'_Mon Dieu_!' I cried, out of patience, 'and you know all this, yet you
will not tell them the truth--the very truth.'
'To what good?' he said. Perhaps M. le Curé was right: but, for my part,
had I stood up in that pulpit, I should have contradicted their lies and
given no quarter. This, indeed, was what I did both in my private and
public capacity; but the people, though they loved me, did not believe
me. They said, 'The best men have their prejudices. M. le Maire is an
excellent man; but what will you? He is but human after all.'
M. le Curé and I said no more to each other on this subject. He was a
brave man, yet here perhaps he was not quite brave. And the effect of
Pierre Plastron's revelations in other quarters was to turn the awe that
had been in many minds into mockery and laughter. '_Ma foi_,' said Félix
de Bois-Sombre, 'Monseigneur St. Lambert has bad taste, mon ami Martin,
to choose Pierre Plastron for his confidant when he might have had
thee.' 'M. de Bois-Sombre does ill to laugh,' said my mother (even my
mother! she was not on my side), 'when it is known that the foolish are
often chosen to confound the wise.' But Agnès, my wife, it was she who
gave me the best consolation. She turned to me with the tears in her
beautiful eyes.
'Mon ami,' she said, 'let Monseigneur St. Lambert say what he will. He
is not God that we should put him above all. There were other saints
with other thoughts that came for thee and for me!'
All this contradiction was over when Agnès and I together took our
flowers on the _jour des morts_ to the graves we love. Glimmering among
the rest was a new cross which I had not seen before. This was the
inscription upon it:--
À PAUL LECAMUS
PARTI
LE 20 JUILLET, 1875
AVEC LES BIEN-AIMÉS
On it was wrought in the marble a little branch of olive. I turned to
look at my wife as she laid underneath this cross a handful of violets.
She gave me her hand still fragrant with the flowers. There was none of
his family left to put up for him any token of human remembrance. Who
but she should have done it, who had helped him to join that company and
army of the beloved? 'This was our brother,' she said; 'he will tell my
Marie what use I made of her olive leaves.'