[Illustration: 051]
THAT same day, as night was closing in, Florent Guillaume thought
ruefully of returning to his airy bedchamber. He had fasted the livelong
day, sore against the grain, holding that a good Christian ought not to
fast in the glorious Resurrection week. Before mounting to his bed in
the steeple, he went to offer a pious prayer to the Lady of Le Puy. She
was still there in the midst of the Church at the spot where she had
offered herself on the Grand Friday to the veneration of the Faithful.
Small and black, crowned with jewels, in a mantle blazing with gold and
precious stones and pearls, she held on her knees the Child Jesus, who
was as black as his mother and passed his head through a slit in her
cloak. It was the miraculous image which St. Louis had received as a
gift from the Soldan of Egypt and had carried with his own hands to the
Church of Anis.
All the pilgrims were gone now, and the Church was dark and empty. The
last offerings of the Faithful were spread at the feet of the beautiful
Black Virgin, displayed on a table lit with wax tapers. You could see
amongst the rest a head, hearts, hands, feet, a woman’s breasts of
silver, a little boat of gold, eggs, loaves, Aurillac cheeses, and in
a bowl full of deniers, sous, and groats, a little blue purse broidered
with silver. Over against the table, in a huge chair, dozed the priest
who guarded the offerings.
Florent Guillaume dropped on his knees before the holy image, and said
over to himself this pious prayer:
“Lady, an it be true that the holy prophet Jeremias, having beheld thee
with the eyes of faith ere ever thou wast conceived, carved with his
hands out of cedar-wood in thy likeness the holy image before which I
am at this present kneeling; an it be true that afterward King Ptolemy,
instructed of the miracles wrought by this same holy image, took it
from the Jewish priests, bare it to Egypt and set it up, covered
with precious stones, in the temple of the idols; an it be true that
Nebuchadnezzar, conqueror of the Egyptians, seized it in his turn and
had it laid amongst his treasure, where the Saracens found it when they
captured Babylon; an it be true that the Soldan loved it in his heart
above all things, and was used to adore it at the least once every day;
an it be true that the said Soldan had never given it to our saintly
King Louis, but that his wife, who was a Saracen dame, yet prized
chivalry and knightly prowess, resolved to make it a gift to the best
knight and worthiest champion of all Christendom; in a word, an this
image be miraculous, as I do firmly credit, have it do a miracle, Lady,
in favour of the poor clerk who hath many a time writ thy praises on
the vellum of the service books. He hath sanctified his sinful hands by
engrossing in a fair writing, with great red capitals at the beginning
of each clause, ‘the fifteen joys of Our Lady,’ in the vulgar tongue
and in rhyme, for the comforting of the afflicted. ‘Tis pious work this.
Think of it, Lady, and heed not his sins. Give him somewhat to eat.
‘Twill both do me much profit, and bring thee great honour, for the
miracle will appear no mean one to all them that know the world. Thou
hast this day gotten gold, eggs, cheeses, and a little blue purse
broidered with silver. Lady, I grudge thee none of the gifts that have
been made thee. Thou dost well deserve them, yea, and more than they. I
do not so much as ask thee to make them give me back what a thief hath
robbed me of, a thief by name Jacquet Coque-douille, one of the most
honoured citizens of this thy town of Le Puy. No, all I ask of thee
is not to let me die of hunger. And if thou grant me this boon, I will
indite a full and fair history of thine holy image here present.”
So prayed Florent Guillaume. The soft murmur of his petition was
answered only by the deep-chested, placid snore of the sleeping priest.
The poor scrivener rose from his knees, stepped noiselessly adown the
nave, for he was grown so light his footfall could scarce be heard, and,
fasting as he was, climbed the tower stairs that had as many steps as
there are days in the year.
Meanwhile Madame Ysabeau, slipping under the cloister gate, entered
her Church. The pilgrims had driven her away, for she loved peace and
solitude. The bird came forward cautiously, putting one foot slowly
in front of the other, then stopped and craned her neck, casting a
suspicious look to right and left. Then giving a graceful little jump
and shaking out her tail feathers, she hopped up to the Black Madonna.
Then she stood stock still a few moments, scrutinising the sleeping
watchman and questioning the darkness and silence with eyes and ears
alert. At last with a mighty flutter of wings she alighted on the table
of offerings.