THE CALVARY ON THE MOORS
"A cold night, Mesdames, for a walk. Your blood needs warming."
The mocking voice of their leader evoked another roar of laughter from
the rest.
They were new to their role, those others, and Madame de Quernais had
always been one to command much respect and awe as the great lady of
the place. Now it was strange, and a little awe-inspiring, too, to see
her standing there, facing them so quietly.
She did not seem afraid of the Terror, this Madame of theirs.
It was disappointing.
But Jean Floessel knew how to deal with vile aristos. He advanced with
a swagger.
"Come," he jeered. "We're on our way to pay you a visit. It's a large
party, but there's room enough at the chateau for all. It's absurd for
three people to occupy so many apartments when we herd by the dozen in
one. But there's an end to that now. Come, Citoyenne, you'll return
with us, and we'll have a pleasant evening. If I mistake not, the
little one there has a fine pair of eyes and a pretty mouth. Aha! we
shall have amusement. And you'll be kind, my friends, if you're wise,
or there's a citoyenne at St. Malo whose embrace is closer and colder
than that of Jean Floessel, and less to your taste, I'll swear."
A hoarse shout of laughter greeted the sally.
After all, it was their day now, and, as Jean said, they would amuse
themselves. There would be wine as well as dancing at the chateau.
It was at this moment that Pere Mouet stepped forward.
A familiar little figure in brown habit, with a brown, kindly old face.
But, just now, the memories of the men of Kernak were short.
"My children," he cried, raising his arm, "what is this? You would be
led by this man into sin? I will not believe it of you. This is not
Paris--it is not even France. It is Brittany--our Brittany. We of a
good and noble land will not join hands with murderers; or what will le
bon Dieu say to us,--He who guards and protects us in storm and gale,
and who brings love and joy to our homes? Go back to those homes now,
my children, and thank the blessed saints that you have been saved from
crime."
A low murmur died away into silence.
Pere Mouet spoke to his people's hearts.
A harsh laugh interrupted him.
"Be silent, old fool," shouted Jean Floessel, "or I will throttle your
whinings in your throat. Malediction! it's always the way of you
priests to be greedy; but since there are three of them we can all have
our share of the kisses."
He looked round, expecting the coarse jest to meet with applause. But
none came. The men of Kernak were thinking.
"Silence!" cried Pere Mouet sternly, raising his hand again. "See you
not where we stand, fellow? Beware lest Heaven shrivel your foul
tongue in your throat in punishment. Repent you of your evil ways ere
it is too late, and the fires of Purgatory chastise you for your sins."
Again the murmur rose from the crowd.
Religion and superstition were too deeply imbedded in these Breton
peasants to be easily up-rooted. Already fear of the Church's anathema
was at work in their hearts.
But Jean Floessel had been in Paris. He had learnt things
there--amongst others how to forget the early lessons his mother had
taught him.
He was not afraid of curse or Purgatory. With a scream of rage he
flung himself forward with hand outstretched to strike the old man
standing there so fearlessly before him.
But one of the peasants--a brawny fisherman of the coast, caught him by
the collar, dragging him back.
Pere Mouet was ready to follow up his advantage.
"My children," he cried. "Ah, my children, you will listen to me. You
will return to your homes and pray God and His dear saints to keep you
in peace from all the madness and evil of these terrible days."
His voice broke off, quavering with emotion, but the crowd answered by
a sigh--a long sigh as of waves receding from impregnable cliffs back
into the deep.
Here and there a woman sobbed and a man muttered prayer or oath. They
were remembering how this Pere Mouet had indeed a right to call them
his children; for had he not been a father to them these forty years
and more?
One recalled how he sat up three nights with little Gaston when he had
the fever, another of the prayers he offered without payment for the
soul of the poor Louis who died unshriven last autumn. Then how good
he had been when bad days came during the winter. Pere Mouet had been
the only one who had a cheery word then, always cheery, always helpful,
always ready to nurse a sick one, or get food for a hungry one. As for
the children, there was not one in Kernak who did not adore him.
And now what were they doing?
That was the question many put to themselves, and hung their heads in
very shame for answer. But Jean Floessel was quick to see the way in
which the wind was blowing.
Nom d'un chien! Was he to have all his eloquence and exertions wasted
because these fools were ready to listen to one old man?
Bah! they had also learnt how to deal with priests in Paris.
In an instant he had thrust his hand within his blouse.
Ah, ah! It was so sudden that not even great Gourmel Tenoit, who had
him by the coat, could see what he was about.
A click, a flash, a loud report, followed by a shriek from the women.
But Pere Mouet did not cry out, though the bullet winged its way
straight enough to its mark. Only he staggered a little, threw up both
arms, and then sank back upon the ground, at the very foot of the
Calvary, his head resting against the rough rock.
It was a terrible silence that followed pistol-shot and screams.
Madame de Quernais was on her knees beside the fallen man; all eyes
were upon her.
Presently she rose.
"He is dead," she said, and her voice, low and dull at first, became
shrill as she repeated the words "He is dead."
A picture to be remembered, that, by more than one who stood there.
The desolate stretch of moor with its tangle of briar, thistle, and
patches of purple heather; the mists broken and fleeing before the
rising wind; the smoking glare of torches on the outskirts of the
crowd, and the pale glory of moonlight streaming down unmarred upon the
great rough-hewn cross, emblem of suffering and death, with its
blackened crown of thorns telling its tale of love and victory
immortal; whilst below, gathered round the little hillock, the three
women, two girls clinging together, yet erect and dauntless, whilst the
third knelt by the prostrate figure of the dead man.
Moonbeams fell on Madame's silver hair, from which the heavy wrap had
slipped back; they fell too, on the wrinkled, kindly face of Pere Mouet.
So small, so helpless he looked lying there, yet never had he been so
powerful. No wonder that he was smiling--the glad, sweet smile of one
who had gone straight from his life-task to meet the Bridegroom.
But the life-work was not over, even though the worn old hands, which
had always been so ready for any labour of love, were stiffening now in
death.
The great crowd, gathered round, was swaying first one way, then
another. Pere Mouet was dead! Pere Mouet was dead! Yonder stood his
murderer.
They were honest men, after all, these humble peasants of Brittany.
Pere Mouet, and the relentless antagonism of the sea, had taught them
to fear God. If they had forgotten, in a sudden burst of mad
excitement and intoxication, they were remembering with quick and
sharpened stabs of conscience.
And Pere Mouet was dead!
Madame was telling them so, even now, whilst she stood like some
accusing spirit before them. Alone, but fearless, telling them this
dread news.
Pere Mouet dead! They were realizing it--to the cost of Jean Floessel.
With a yell they would have flung themselves upon him, but Jean had
already seen his danger.
If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.
Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under
the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.
He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet. But the men of Kernak were of
another mind.
The tide had turned.
It was no longer "A bas les aristocrats," "Vive la nation!" but the
howl of men who seek vengeance.
Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.
The blockheads! the fools! All this outcry because one insignificant
priest had been killed! Why! they died like flies in Paris. He
himself had been a cursed idiot ever to leave that glorious city.
And behind him came the avengers of Pere Mouet.
He ran well---that Jean Floessel--for over a mile, stumbling, sweating,
cursing, whilst anger gave way to growing fear.
And he had reason to fear, for behind him ran Gourmel Tenoit, whose
little lad had been nursed back to life by the good priest of Kernak,
and beside him was Blaise Fermat, who owed wife and happiness to the
same kindly influence.
They caught Jean Floessel just by the great rock where three brave
Breton soldiers lie buried, and where the fairies visit the dead on
moonlit nights and talk to them. Yes, they caught him there, and he
had not even time to cry "Vive la nation!" ...
Those two were happier as they walked home together, leaving behind
them a limp and hideous thing, face downwards amongst the heather.
But many wept that night in Kernak as they whispered Pere Mouet's name
in their prayers.