with its back to the breakers. It has the appearance of being cast there
at high tide, its zigzag line of tiled roofs drying in the air and sun,
like the scaled shell of some stranded monster of the sea. There is a
cavernous old kitchen within, resplendent in shining copper--a busy
kitchen to-day, sizzling in good things and pungent with the aroma of
two tender young chickens, basting on a spit, a jolly old kitchen, far
more enticing than the dingy long dining-room adjoining it, whose walls
are frescoed in panels representing bottle-green lobsters, gaping
succulent clams, and ferocious crabs sidling away indignantly from nets
held daintily by fine ladies and their gallants, in costumes that were
in vogue before the revolution. Even when it pours, this cheerless old
dining-room at The Three Wolves is deserted, since there are half a
score of far cosier little round pavilions for lovers and intimate
friends, built over the oyster pools.
Beyond them, hard by the desolate beach, lie the rocks known as The
Three Wolves. In calm weather the surf smashes over their glistening
backs--at low water, as it happened to be to-day, the seethe of the tide
scurried about their dripping bellies green with hairy sea-weed.
Now and then came cheery ripples of laughter from our little pavilion,
where Germaine and Alice de Breville were arranging a mass of scarlet
nasturtiums, twining their green leaves and tendrils amongst the plates
of _hors d'oeuvres_ and among the dust-caked bottles of Chablis and
Burgundy--Alice, whose dark hair and olive skin are in strong contrast
to Germaine's saucy beauty.
They had banished Tanrade, who had offered his clumsy help--and spilled
the sardines. He had climbed on the roof and dropped pebbles down on
them through the cracks and had later begged forgiveness through the
key-hole. Now he was yelling like an Indian, this celebrated composer of
ballets, as he swung a little peasant maid of ten in a creaky swing
beyond the pool--a dear little maid with eyes as dark as Alice's, who
screamed from sheer delight, and insisted on that good fellow playing
all the games that lay about them, from _tonneau_ to _bilboquet_.
Together, the cure and I carried the basket, now plentifully filled with
oysters back to the kitchen, while Tanrade was hailed from the pavilion,
much to the little maid's despair.
"_Depechez-vous!_" cried Alice, who had straightway embraced her exiled
Tanrade on his return and was now waving a summons to the cure and
myself.
"_Bon_," shouted back the cure. "_Allons, mes enfants, a table_--and the
one who has no appetite shall be cast into the sea--by the heels," added
his reverence.
What a breakfast followed! Such a rushing of little maids back and forth
from the jolly kitchen with the great platters of oysters. What a sole
smothered in a mussel sauce! What a lobster, scarlet as the cap of a
cardinal and garnished with crisp romaine! and the chickens! and the
mutton! and the _souffle_ of potatoes, and the salad of shrimps--_Mon
Dieu!_ What a luncheon, "sprayed," as the French say, with that rare old
Chablis and mellow Burgundy! And what laughter and camaraderie went
with it from the very beginning, for to be at table with friends in
France is to be _en fete_--it is the hour when hearts are warmest and
merriest.
Ah, you dear little women! You who know just when to give those who love
you a friendly pressure of the hand, or the gift of your lips if needs
be, even in the presence of so austere a personage as Monsieur le Cure.
You who understand. You who are tender or merry with the mood, or
contrary to the verge of exasperation--only to caress with the subtle
light of your eyes and be forgiven.
It was not until we had reached our coffee and liqueur, that the
surprise for the cure was forthcoming. Hardly had the tiny glasses been
filled, when the clear tone of the bell ringing from the ancient church
of The Three Wolves made us cease our talk to listen.
Alice turned to the cure; it was evidently the moment she had been
waiting for.
"Listen," said Alice softly--"how delicious!"
"It is the bell of Ste. Marie," returned the cure.
Even Tanrade was silent now, for his reverence had made the sign of the
cross. As his fingers moved I saw a peculiar look come into his eyes--a
look of mingled disappointment and resignation.
Again Alice spoke: "Your cracked bell at Pont du Sable has not long to
ring, my friend," she said very tenderly.
"One must be content, my child, with what one has," replied the cure.
Alice leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear, Germaine
smiling the while.
I saw his reverence give a little start of surprise.
"No, no," he protested half aloud. "Not that; it is too much to ask of
you with all your rehearsals at the Bouffes Parisiennes coming."
"_Parbleu!_" exclaimed Alice, "it will not be so very difficult--I shall
accomplish it, you shall see what a concert we shall give--we shall make
a lot of money; every one will be there. It has the voice of a frog,
your bell. _Dieu!_ What a fuss it makes over its crack. You shall have a
new one--two new ones, _mon ami_, even if we have to make bigger the
belfry of your little gray church to hang them."
The cure grew quite red. I saw for an instant his eyes fill with tears,
then with a benign smile, he laid his hand firmly over Alice's and
lifting the tips of her fingers, kissed them twice in gratefulness.
He was very happy. He was happy all the way back in Germaine's yellow
car to Pont du Sable. Happy when he thrust his heavy key in the rusty
lock of the small door that let him into his silent garden, cool under
the stars, and sweet with the scent of roses.
* * * * *
A long winter has passed since that memorable luncheon at The Three
Wolves. Our little pavilion over the emerald pool will never see us
reunited, I fear. A cloud has fallen over my good friend the cure, a
cloud so unbelievable, and yet so dense, if it be true, and so filled
with ominous mutterings of thunder and lightning, crime, defalcation,
banishment, and the like, that I go about my work dazed at the rumoured
situation.
They tell me the cure still says mass, and when it is over, regains the
presbytery by way of the back lane skirting the marsh. I am also told
that he rarely even ventures into his garden, but spends most of his
days and half of his nights alone in his den with the door locked, and
strict orders to his faithful old servant Marie, who adores him, that he
will see no one who calls.
For days I have not laid eyes on him--he who kept his napkin tied in a
sailor's knot in my cupboard and came to breakfast, luncheon, or dinner
when he pleased, waking up my house abandoned by the marsh with his good
humour, joking with Suzette, my little maid-of-all-work, until her fair
cheeks grew the rosier, and rousing me out of the blues with his quick
wit and his hearty laugh.
It seems impossible to me that he is guilty of what he is accused of,
yet the facts seem undeniable.
Only the good go wrong, is it not so? The bad have become so
commonplace, they do not attract our attention.
Now the ways of the cure were always just. I have never known him to do
a mean thing in his life, far less a dishonest one. I have known him to
give the last few sous he possessed to a hungry fisherwoman who needed
bread for herself and her brood of children and content himself with
what was left among the few remaining vegetables in his garden. There
are days, too, when he is forced to live frugally upon a peasant soup
and a pear for dinner, and there have been occasions to my knowledge,
when the soup had to be omitted and his menu reduced to a novel, a
cigarette and the pear.
It is a serious matter, the separation of the state from the church in
France, since it has left the priest with the munificent salary of four
hundred francs a year, out of which he must pay his rent and give to the
poor.
Once we dined nobly together upon two fat sparrows, and again we had a
blackbird for dinner. He had killed it that morning from his window,
while shaving, for I saw the lather dried on the stock of his duck gun.
Monsieur le Cure is ingenious when it comes to hard times.
Again, there are days when he is in luck, when some generous parishioner
has had the forethought to restock his larder. Upon such bountiful
occasions he insists on Tanrade and myself dining with him at the
presbytery as long as these luxuries last, refusing to dine with either
of us until there is no more left of his own to give.
The last time I saw him, I had noticed a marked change in his reverence.
He was moody and unshaven, and his saucerlike hat was as dusty and
spotted as his frayed soutane. Only now and then he gave out flashes of
his old geniality and even they seemed forced. I was amazed at the
change in him, and yet, when I consider all I have heard since, I do not
wonder much at his appearance.
Tanrade tells me (and he evidently believes it) that some fifteen
hundred francs, raised by Alice's concert and paid over to the cure to
purchase the bells for his little gray church at Pont du Sable, have
disappeared and that his reverence refuses to give any account.
Despite his hearty Bohemian spirit, Tanrade, like most musicians, is a
dreamer and as ready as a child to believe anything and anybody. Being a
master of the pianoforte and a composer of rare talent, he can hardly be
called sane. And yet, though I have seen him enthusiastic, misled, moved
to tears over nothing, indignant over an imaginary insult, or ready to
forgive any one who could be fool enough to be his enemy, I have never
known him so thoroughly upset or so positive in his convictions as when
the other morning, as I sat loafing before my fire, he entered my den.
"It is incredible, _mon vieux_, incredible!" he gasped, throwing himself
disconsolately into my arm-chair. "I have just been to the presbytery.
Not only does he refuse to give an account of the money, but he declines
to offer any explanation beyond the one that he "spent it." Moreover, he
sits hunched up before his stove in his little room off the kitchen,
chewing the end of a cigarette. Why, he didn't even ask me to have a
drink--the cure, _mon ami_--our cure--_Mon Dieu_, what a mess! Ah, _mon
Dieu!_"
He sank his chin in his hands and gazed at me with a look of utter
despair.
I regarded him keenly, then I went to the decanter and poured out for
him a stiff glass of applejack.
"Drink that," said I, "and get normal."
With an impetuous gesture he waved it away.
"No, not now!" he exclaimed, "wait until I tell you all--nothing until I
tell you."
"Go on, then," I returned, "I want to hear all about this wretched
business. Go slow and tell it to me from top to bottom. I am not as
convinced of the cure's guilt as you are, old boy. There may be nothing
in it more than a pack of village lies; and if there is a vestige of the
truth, we may, by putting our heads together, help matters."
He started to speak, but I held up my hand.
"One thing before you proceed," I declared with conviction. "I can no
more believe the cure is dishonest than Alice or yourself. It is
ridiculous to presume so for a moment. I have known the cure too well.
He is a prince. He has a heart as big as all outdoors. Look at the good
he's done in this village! There is not a vagabond in it but will tell
you he is as right as rain. Ask the people he helps what they think of
him, they'll tell you 'he's just the cure for Pont du Sable.' _Voila!_
That's what they'll tell you, and they mean it. All the gossip in the
world can't hurt him. Here," I cried, forcing the glass into his hand,
"get that down you, you maker of ballets, and proceed with the horrible
details, but proceed gently, merrily, with the right sort of beat in
your heart, for the cure is as much a friend of yours as he is of mine."
Tanrade shrugged his broad shoulders, and for some moments sipped his
glass. At length, he set it down on the broad table at his elbow, and
said slowly: "You know how good Alice is, how much she will do for any
one she is fond of--for a friend, I mean, like the cure. Very well, it
is not an easy thing to give a concert in Paris that earns fifteen
hundred francs for a cure whom, it is safe to say, no one in the
audience, save Germaine, Alice and myself had ever heard of. It was a
veritable _tour de force_ to organize. You were not there. I'm glad you
were not. It was a dull old concert that would not have amused you
much--Lassive fell ill at the last moment, Delmar was in a bad humour,
and the quartet had played the night before at a ball at the Elysee and
were barely awake. Yet in spite of it the theatre was packed; a chic
audience, too. Frambord came out with half a column in the _Critique des
Arts_ with a pretty compliment to Alice's executive energy, and added
'that it was one of the rare soirees of the season.' He must have been
drunk when he wrote it. I played badly--I never can play when they
gabble. It was as garrulous as a fish market in front. _Enfin!_ It was
over and we telegraphed his reverence the result; from a money
standpoint it was a '_succes fou_.'"
Tanrade leaned back and for a few seconds gazed at the ceiling of my
den.
"Where every penny has gone," he resumed, with a strained smile, "_Dieu
sait!_ There is no bell, not even the sound of one, _et voila!_"
He turned abruptly and reached for his glass, forgetting he had drained
it. A fly was buzzing on its back in the last drop. And then we both
smiled grimly, for we were thinking of Monsieur le Cure.
I rang the bell of the presbytery early the next morning, by inserting
my jackknife, to spare my fingers, in a loop at the end of a crooked
wire which dangles over the rambling wall of the cure's garden. The door
itself is of thick oak, and framed by stones overgrown with lichens--a
solid old playground for nervous lizards when the sun shines, and a
favourite sticking place for snails when it rains. I had to tug hard on
the crooked wire before I heard a faint jingle issuing in response from
the cure's cavernous kitchen, whose hooded chimney and stone-paved floor
I love to paint.
Now came the klop-klop of a pair of sabots--then the creak of a heavy
key as it turned over twice in the rusty lock, and his faithful Marie
cautiously opened the garden door. I do not know how old Marie is,
there is so little left of this good soul to guess by. Her small
shrunken body is bent from age and hard work. Her hands are heavy--the
fingers gnarled and out of proportion to her gaunt thin wrists. She has
the wrinkled, leathery face of some kindly gnome. She opened her eyes in
a sort of mute appeal as I inquired if Monsieur le Cure was at home.
"Ah! My poor monsieur, his reverence will see no one"--she
faltered--"_Ah! Mais_"--she sighed, knowing that I knew the change in
her master and the gossip thereof.
"My good Marie," I said, persuasively patting her bony shoulder, "tell
his reverence that I _must_ see him. Old friends as we are--"
"_Bon Dieu, oui!_" she exclaimed after another sigh. "Such old friends
as you and he--I will go and see," said she, and turned bravely back
down the path that led to his door while I waited among the roses.
A few moments later Marie beckoned to me from the kitchen window.
"He will see you," she whispered, as I crossed the stone floor of the
kitchen. "He is in the little room," and she pointed to a narrow door
close by the big chimney, a door provided with old-fashioned little
glass panes upon which are glued transparent chromos of wild ducks.
I knocked gently.
"_Entrez!_" came a tired voice from within.
I turned the knob and entered his den--a dingy little box of a room,
sunk a step below the level of the kitchen, with a smoke-grimed ceiling
and corners littered with dusty books and pamphlets.
He was sitting with his back to me, humped up in a worn arm-chair,
before his small stove, just as Tanrade had found him. As I edged around
his table--past a rack holding his guns, half-hidden under two
dilapidated game bags and a bicycle tyre long out of service, he turned
his hollow eyes to mine, with a look I shall long remember, and feebly
grasped my outstretched hand.
"Come," said I, "you're going to get a grip on yourself, _mon ami_.
You're going to get out of this wretched, unkempt state of melancholia
at once. Tanrade has told me much. You know as well as I do, the village
is a nest of gossip--that they make a mountain out of a molehill; if I
were a pirate chief and had captured this vagabond port, I'd have a few
of those wagging tongues taken out and keel-hauled in the bay."
He started as if in pain, and again turned his haggard eyes to mine.
"I don't believe there's a word of truth in it," I declared hotly.
"There--_is_," he returned hoarsely, trembling so his voice faltered--"I
am--a thief."
He sat bolt-upright in his chair, staring at me like a man who had
suddenly become insane. His declaration was so sudden and amazing, that
for some moments I knew not what to reply, then a feeling of pity took
possession of me. He was still my friend, whatever he had done. I saw
his gaze revert to the crucifix hanging between the steel engravings of
two venerable saints, over the mantel back of the stove--a mantel heaped
with old shot bags and empty cartridge shells.
"How the devil did it happen?" I blurted out at length. "You don't mean
to say you stole the money?"
"Spent it," he replied half inaudibly.
"How spent it? On yourself?"
"No, no! Thank God--"
"How, then?"
He leaned forward, his head sunk in his hands, his eyes riveted upon
mine.
"There is--so--much--dire--need of money," he said, catching his breath
between his words. "We are all human--all weak in the face of another's
misery. It takes a strong heart, a strong mind, a strong body to resist.
There are some temptations too terrible even for a priest. I wish with
all my heart that Alice had never given it into my hands."
I started to speak, but he held up his arms.
"Do not ask me more," he pleaded--"I cannot tell you--I am ill and
weak--my courage is gone."
"Is there any of the money left?" I ventured quietly, after waiting in
vain for him to continue.
"I do not know," he returned wearily, "most of it has gone--over there,
beneath the papers, in the little drawer," he said pointing to the
corner; "I kept it there. Yes, there is some left--but I have not dared
count it."
Again there ensued a painful silence, while I racked my brain for a
scheme that might still save the situation, bad as it looked. In the
state he was in, I had not the heart to worry out of him a fuller
confession. Most of the fifteen hundred francs was gone, that was plain
enough. What he had done with it I could only conjecture. Had he given
it to save another I wondered. Some man or woman whose very life and
reputation depended upon it? Had he fallen in love hopelessly and past
all reasoning? There is no man that some woman cannot make her slave. It
was not many years ago, that a far more saintly priest than he eloped to
Belgium with a pretty seamstress of Les Fosses. Then I thought of
Germaine!--that little minx, badly in debt--perhaps? No, no, impossible!
She was too clever--too honest for that.
"Have you seen Alice?" I broke our silence with at length.
He shook his head wearily. "I could not," he replied, "I know the
bitterness she must feel toward me."
At that moment Marie knocked at the door. As she entered, I saw that her
wrinkled face was drawn, as with lowered eyes she regarded a yellow
envelope stamped with the seal of the _Republique Francaise_.
With a trembling hand she laid it beside the cure, and left the room.
The cure started, then he rose nervously to his feet, steadying himself
against the table's edge as he tore open the envelope, and glanced at
its contents. With a low moan he sank back in his chair.--"Go," he
pleaded huskily, "I wish to be alone--I have been summoned before the
mayor."
* * * * *
Never before in the history of the whole country about, had a cure been
hauled to account. Pont du Sable was buzzing like a beehive over the
affair. Along its single thoroughfare, flanked by the stone houses of
the fishermen, the gossips clustered in groups. From what I caught in
passing proved to me again that his reverence had more friends than
enemies.
It was in the mayor's kitchen, which serves him as executive chamber as
well, that the official investigation took place.
With the exception of the Municipal Council, consisting of the baker,
the butcher, the grocer, and two raisers of cattle, none were to be
admitted at the mayor's save Tanrade, myself and Alice de Breville,
whose presence the mayor had judged imperative, and who had been
summoned from Paris.
Tanrade and I had arrived early--the mayor greeting us at the gate of
his trim little garden, and ushering us to our chairs in the clean,
well-worn kitchen, with as much solemnity as if there had been a death
in the house. Here we sat, under the low ceiling of rough beams and
waited in a funereal silence, broken only by the slow ticking of the
tall clock in the corner. It was working as hard as it could, its brass
pendulum swinging lazily toward three o'clock, the hour appointed for
the investigation.
Monsieur le Maire to-day was no longer the genial, ruddy old raiser of
cattle, who stops me whenever I pass his gate with a hearty welcome. He
was all Mayor to-day, clean shaven to the raw edges of his cropped gray
side-whiskers with a look of grave importance in his shrewd eyes and a
firm setting of his wrinkled upper lip, that indicated the dignity of
his office; a fact which was further accentuated by his carefully
brushed suit of black, a clean starched collar and the tri-coloured silk
sash, with gold tassels, which he is forced to gird his fat paunch with,
when he either marries you or sends you to jail. The clock ticked on,
its oaken case reflecting the copper light from the line of saucepans
hanging beside it on the wall. Presently, the Municipal Council filed in
and seated themselves about a centre table, upon which lay in readiness
the official seal, pen, ink and paper. Being somewhat ill at ease in his
starched shirt, the florid grocer coughed frequently, while the two
cattle-raisers in their black blouses, talked in gutteral whispers over
a bargain in calves. Through the open window, screened with cool vines,
came the faint murmur of the village--suddenly it ceased. I rose, and
going to the window, looked up the street. The cure was coming down it,
striding along as straight as a savage, nodding to those who nodded to
him. An old fisherwoman hobbled forth and kissed his hand. Young and
old, gamblers of the sea, lifted their caps as he passed.
"The census of opinion is with him," I whispered to Tanrade, as I
regained my chair. "He has his old grit with him, too."
The next instant, his reverence strode in before us--firm, cool, and so
thoroughly master of himself that a feeling of intense relief stole over
me.
"I have come," he said, in a clear, even voice, "in answer to your
summons, Monsieur le Maire."
The mayor rose, bowed gravely, waved the cure to a chair opposite the
Municipal Council, and continued in silence the closely written contents
of two official documents containing the charge. The stopping of an
automobile at his gate now caused him to look up significantly. Madame
de Breville had arrived. As Alice entered every man in the room rose to
his feet. Never had I seen her look lovelier, gowned, as she was, in
simple black, her dark hair framing her exquisite features, pale as
ivory, her sensitive mouth tense as she pressed Tanrade's hand
nervously, and took her seat beside us. For an instant, I saw her dark
eyes flash as she met the steady gaze of the cure's.
"In the name of the _Republique Francaise_," began the mayor in measured
tones.
The cure folded his arms, his eyes fixed on the open door.
"Pardon me," interrupted Alice, "I wish it to be distinctly understood
before you begin, Monsieur le Maire, that I am here wholly against my
will."
The cure turned sharply.
"You have summoned me," continued Alice, "and there was no alternative
but to come--I know nothing in detail concerning the charge against
Monsieur le Cure, nor do I wish to take any part whatever in this
unfortunate affair. It is imperative that I return to Paris in time to
play to-night, I beg of you that you will let me go at once."
There was a polite murmur of surprise from the Municipal Council. The
cure sprang to his feet.
"Alice, my child!" he cried, "look at me."
Her eyes met his own, her lips twitching nervously, her breast heaving.
"I wish _you_ to judge me before you go," he pleaded. "They accuse me of
being a thief;" his voice rose suddenly to its full vibrant strength;
"they do not know the truth."