Jacques Frénin was the name of the man who so fearfully figured as the
executioner of the abbé. From an early age he had imbibed those infidel
opinions that were too industriously propagated among the French people
for a considerable time previous to the breaking out of the great
revolution. He hated the priests, because he thought they were rich, and
not obliged to labour like himself; for the same reason he detested the
nobility and higher classes. He considered religion as a mere invention
of priestcraft; he was never seen at its offices, or participating in
its rites; it was therefore not surprising that he assisted at the
demolition of the ancient rood of the abbey with a sort of diabolical
satisfaction. "Ma foi," he exclaimed, "c'était un beau commencement,
mais ça ne s'arrêtera pas là;" and indeed, a few years later the full
principles of infidelity developed themselves in the closing of all the
temples of God, and total destruction of many of the most glorious
religious monuments. As soon as popular fury had made head against all
regular government, Jacques entered the National Guard, and proceeded to
Paris, where his great strength and daring courage soon raised him in
the estimation of his fiend-like associates. He was always the ready
destroyer of a cleric or aristocrat; hence the terrible part he
performed at the close of the last chapter. Through the continual
occasions of plunder that presented themselves in those lawless times,
he obtained a considerable sum of money, and with this he determined on
retiring to his village, and securing some property. The abbey buildings
had been nearly demolished for the materials, with the exception of the
great western towers, which had resisted destruction, and stood now
isolated, and of immense apparent height. Fragments of shafts, mullions,
ribs, and ashlar-work were piled in heaps for sale, and the area of the
church was one great mound of lime and broken materials. The sad scene
of desolation produced no regret on the mind of the hardened Jacques,
who merely exclaimed, "Ah, c'est fini!" and turned towards the old
parish church, which was still standing. On drawing near he perceived an
affiche announcing it for sale as part of the propriétés nationales.
"Here is a capital chance," he thought; "a store for wood is what I
require, and then if I buy that neighbouring forest my fortune is made."
In a short time the purchase was concluded, and the venerable temple,
which had for some time ceased to echo the divine praises, was disposed
of to become a common wood-store. The interior of the building had a
most desolate appearance; the whole was denuded of every ornament; the
side altars were standing, but the high altar had been thrown down in a
fruitless search for supposed treasure. An ancient image of our Lady had
been removed, but the corbel remained, and the outline of the figure
itself was traceable on the wall. The floor was strewed with rubbish,
and damp was gathering round the bases of the pillars and chancel steps.
Jacques viewed his purchase with great satisfaction. Could he but fill
it with wood, what profit he should realize! "But, peste!" he exclaimed,
"with that diable de jubé, it is impossible to get a cart up near the
end. Tu descendras vite." Now Frénin had assisted during his
revolutionary campaigns at the destruction of many a noble church, and
had remarked the expeditious way in which this was effected by cutting
away the bases of the shafts, and propping them up with pieces of
timber, smeared with pitch, which, when fired, were rapidly consumed,
and caused the instant fall of the superincumbent weight; so that, as
one of the writers of that period triumphantly explains, "_On peut
détruire toute une cathédrale dans un petit quart d'heure._" Having
frequently witnessed the success of this plan on a great scale, Jacques
determined to apply it to the pillars of the rood screen, and with the
aid of a mason who had been employed in the demolition of the abbey, he
succeeded in stilting all the shafts on wooden shores, which he
afterwards covered with grease and pitch. He calculated that in their
fall they would bring in the vaulting of the loft, and, in fine, save
all the trouble of pulling down piecemeal. All being prepared, he
entered the church early in the morning, and twisting the wooden props
with straw, he proceeded to ignite them. Those who have read the last
chapter should remember the peculiar construction of this screen, with
its iron trellis-work between the walls, the solid reredoses towards the
chancel. A volume of smoke rose from each of the four piles of wood,
succeeded by fierce crackling flames, and still denser smoke. Frénin was
quickly escaping, when in the confusion of the moment, he pressed the
iron gate from him; it closed with a spring catch, and with the rebound
shot the key far beyond his reach into the nave. He rushed to the
chancel doors, but they were barred within. In the midst of the
increasing flame he frantically dashed himself now against the door, and
now straining at the iron trellis, he roared with despair and terror;
for at that early hour no one would be near to force the gates and save
him. But two little children, belonging to a devout widow of the
village, had been taught to go and offer their morning prayers before
the church doors, though its portals had been closed for the ingress of
the faithful; and, as usual, they bent their knees before the sacred
threshold. Scarcely had they commenced their orisons, when the crackling
sounds within the building attracted their attention; these were rapidly
succeeded by the shouts of Frénin. Looking through the crevice, they
beheld flames, and ran back affrighted to the village, exclaiming, "Le
feu est à l'église." At this cry the peasants rushed from the houses,
and the smoke, which now escaped from the broken windows of the edifice,
showed that the alarm was too well founded. Proceeding to the western
doors, which Frénin had closed on entering, they forced them open by
means of a felled tree, swung by their united efforts as a ram.
On entering, the most horrible spectacle presented itself. The pillars
and arches of the rood screen encircled in fire, and in the midst of
smoke and blaze the gigantic figure of a man whose hair and clothes were
already burning, yelling imprecations; in the agony of despair he
grasped the bars with fruitless efforts to tear them from their faithful
rivets. "Ah, mon Dieu, c'est Frénin," exclaimed the terrified villagers.
"Il est perdu!" cried another voice, and at that instant the wooden
shores, reduced to gleaming embers, gave way, and arches, vaulting, all
fell in crushing weight on the wretched ambonoclast, who was speedily
consumed beneath the burning mass. Water was now procured, and by the
ready help of the numerous villagers who had been gathered to the spot,
all danger to the fabric itself was soon prevented; but when the smoking
ruins had been cleared away, a few ashes were all that remained of the
powerful frame of Jacques Frénin, the revolutionary ambonoclast.
At this moment a man of venerable aspect entered the building, and who,
notwithstanding his secular apparel, might still be recognized as the
old curé, the Père Duchesne; for it was him, indeed. He had been
concealed during the Reign of Terror by a neighbouring farmer, in whose
loft the holy rites had often been privately celebrated. "My children,"
he exclaimed, "you behold the terrible judgments of God on those who
sacrilegiously deface his holy temples. The unhappy Abbé de Chantal
perished by the hand of that wretched man of whose awful death you have
but just been the terrified spectators." A cry of subdued horror was
heard among the listening people. "Yes," he continued, "I was an
unwilling witness of his murder at Paris, and it was Frénin who struck
the blow. Inured to every crime, a despiser of God's ordinances and of
his ministers, he came at last to pollute this very temple to profane
uses. But divine justice would not suffer this enormity; he has perished
by his own hands, and his end was destruction. My dear children,"
continued the curé, "my heart bleeds to enter this church where I for so
many years united with you in daily sacrifice and prayer, and from which
we have been so long excluded, to see it so forlorn and desolate; and
even now who knows but by my presence here I may be discovered and
destroyed?" "Ah, mon père, mon père," murmured the villagers, "we will
protect you." "God's will be done!" replied the curé. At that moment the
sound of an approaching horseman was heard. The women instantly drew
near the pastor, while some of the men hastened to the doors, to
ascertain the person who was arriving. In a few moments they returned
with a substantial farmer of the neighbourhood, covered with dust, who,
hastening to the curé, exclaimed, "Ah, Monsieur le curé, nous sommes
sauvés; le premier consul a restauré le culte," and handed a paper to
the venerable priest, who could scarcely peruse it from emotion. It was,
indeed, true; the concordat with the Holy Father was made, religion was
restored. Such was the exultation of the inhabitants, that they would
have had mass celebrated in the church, if the curé had not explained to
them that, after its recent desecration, and the horrible death of
Frénin, it would require reconciliation before any sacred rites could be
performed within its walls; and for that purpose they must wait either
for the bishop or his authority.
A procession in thanksgiving was then speedily arranged; and now with
what alacrity long-concealed objects appeared! One good woman
triumphantly produces a cope she had concealed under a quadruple layer
of mattresses; another hastens with the holy water vat, brightening it
up as she came along; half the contents of the ancient sacristy returned
to view as if by magic. But what gave greater joy to the old curé than
all the rest, was the ancient rood, that had been removed from the jubé
and concealed in a roof by a pious parishioner. It came supported by
four of the strongest youths, carried in triumph. The voice of the curé,
enfeebled by age, and tremulous with overflowing devotion, could
scarcely entone the Vexilla Regis, but it was instantly taken up by a
chorus of voices. With caps in hand, tearful eyes, and swelling hearts,
the villagers of Conques followed the venerable image of the Redeemer
till arrived at the cemetery. The curé, after an ardent address of
exhortation and thanksgiving, dismissed them with his blessing. One bell
yet remained in the old tower; a rope was soon obtained, and loudly it
rang on that happy day. The church was soon after reconciled, and the
holy sacrifice has been continually offered up ever since. The rood was
raised again on high, with great rejoicings, and Père Duchesne saw that
day, and sang his _Nunc Dimittis_. He reposes in peace in the adjoining
cemetery, but his spirit lives in his successor, who equally venerates
the ancient traditions of his ancient faith. The rood is now safe from
further profanation. The traces of Frénin's destruction will be shortly
effaced by a perfect restoration; but the frightful end of the
ambonoclasts of Conques will long form the subject of discourse among
the inhabitants of the village.