GREEK AND GREEK
When they had walked about a hundred yards farther on, the footpath was
brought to a sudden termination by a house built across it to the
water's edge. In this lay the explanation of its scanty use and
luxuriant growth of moss.
It was not a dark night, and without difficulty the priest found the
handle of a bell, of which, however, no sound reached their ears. The
door, cut deep in the stone, was opened after a short delay by a lay
brother who showed no signs of rigid fasting. Again Christian noticed
that no greeting was exchanged, no word of explanation offered or
expected. The lay brother led the way along a dimly lighted corridor, in
which there were doors upon each side at regular intervals. There was a
chill and stony feeling in the atmosphere.
At the end of the corridor a gleam of light shone through a half-open
door upon the bare stone floor. Into this cell Christian was shown.
Without even noticing whether the priest followed him or not, he entered
the tiny room and threw himself wearily upon the bed. Although it was an
intensely hot night he shivered a little, and as he lay he clasped his
head with either hand. His eyes were dull and lifeless, and the colour
had entirely left his cheeks, though his lips were red and moist. He
took no notice of his surroundings, which, though simple and somewhat
bare, were not devoid of comfort.
In the meantime, René Drucquer had followed the door-keeper up a broad
flight of stairs to a second corridor which was identical with that
below, except that a room took the place of this small entrance-lobby
and broad door. Thus the windows of this room were immediately above the
river, which rendered them entirely free from overlookers, as the land
on the opposite side was low and devoid of trees.
The lay brother stopped in front of the door of this apartment, and
allowed the young priest to pass him and knock at the door with his own
hands. The response from within was uttered in such a low tone that if
he had not been listening most attentively René would not have heard it.
He opened the door, which creaked a little on its hinges, and passed
into the room alone.
In front of him a man dressed in a black soutane was seated at a table
placed before the window. The only lamp in the room, which was long and
narrow, stood on the table before him, so that the light of it was
reflected from his sleek black head disfigured by a tiny tonsure. As
René Drucquer advanced up the room, the occupant raised his head
slightly, but made no attempt to turn round. With a quick, unobtrusive
movement of his large white hand he moved the papers on the table before
him, so that no written matter remained exposed to view. Upon the table
were several books, and on the right-hand side of the plain inkstand
stood a beautifully carved stone crucifix, while upon the left there was
a small mirror no larger than a carte-de-visite. This was placed at a
slight angle upon a tiny wire easel, and by raising his eyes any person
seated at the table could at once see what was passing in the room
behind him--the entire apartment, including the door, being reflected in
the mirror.
Though seated, the occupant of this peculiarly constructed room was
evidently tall. His shoulders, though narrow, were very square, and in
any other garment than a thin soutane his slightness of build would
scarcely have been noticeable. His head was of singular and remarkable
shape. Very narrow from temple to temple, it was quite level from the
summit of the high forehead to the spot where the tonsure gleamed
whitely, and the length of the skull from front to back was abnormal.
The dullest observer could not have failed to recognise that there was
something extraordinary in such a head, either for good or evil.
The Abbé Drucquer advanced across the bare stone floor, and took his
stand at the left side of the table, within a yard of his Provincial's
elbow. Before taking any notice of him, the Provincial opened a thick
book bound in dark morocco leather, of which the leaves were of white
unruled paper, interleaved, like a diary, with blotting paper. The pages
were numbered, although there was, apparently, no index attached to the
volume. After a moment's thought, the tall man turned to a certain folio
which was partially covered by a fine handwriting in short paragraphs.
Then for the first time he looked up.
“Good evening,” he said, in full melodious voice. As he raised his face
the light of the lamp fell directly upon it. There was evidently no
desire to conceal any passing expression by the stale old method of a
shaded lamp. The face was worthy of the head. Clean-cut, calm, and
dignified; it was singularly fascinating, not only by reason of its
beauty, which was undeniable, but owing to the calm, almost superhuman
power that lay in the gaze of the velvety eyes. There was no keenness of
expression, no quickness of glance, and no seeking after effect by
mobility of lash or lid. When he raised his eyes, the lower lid was
elevated simultaneously, which peculiarity, concealing the white around
the pupil, imparted an uncomfortable sense of inscrutability. There was
no expression beyond a vague sense of velvety depth, such as is felt
upon gazing for some space of time down a deep well.
“Good evening,” replied René Drucquer, meeting with some hesitation the
slow, kindly glance.
The Provincial leant forward and took from the tray of the inkstand a
quill pen. With the point of it he followed the lines written in the
book before him.
“I understand,” he said, in a modulated and business-like tone, “that
you have been entirely successful?”
“I believe so.”
The Provincial turned his head slightly, as if about to raise his eyes
once more to the young priest's face, but after remaining a moment in
the same position with slightly parted lips and the pen poised above the
book, he returned to the written notes.
“You left,” he continued, “on Monday week last. On the Wednesday evening
you ... carried out the instructions given to you. This morning you
arrived at Audierne, and came into the harbour at daybreak. Your part
has been satisfactorily performed. You have brought your prisoner with
all expedition. So--” here the Provincial raised the pen from the book
with a jerk of his wrist and shrugged his shoulders almost
imperceptibly, “so--you have been entirely successful?”
Although there was a distinct intention of interrogation in the tone in
which this last satisfactory statement was made, the young priest stood
motionless and silent. After a pause, the other continued in the same
kind, even voice:
“What has not been satisfactory to you, my son?”
“The 'patron' of the boat, Loic Plufer, was killed by the breaking of a
rope, before we were out of sight of the English coast.”
“Ah! I am sorry. Had you time--were you enabled to administer to him the
Holy Rites?”
“No, my father. He was killed at one blow.”
The Provincial laid aside his pen and leant back. His soft eyes rested
steadily on the book in front of him.
“Did the accident have any evil effect upon the crew!” he asked
indifferently.
“I think not,” was the reply. “I endeavoured to prevent such effect
arising, and--and in this the Englishman helped me greatly.”
Without moving a muscle the Provincial turned his eyes towards the young
priest. He did not look up into his face, but appeared to be watching
his slim hands, which were moving nervously upon the surface of his
black soutane.
“My son,” he said smoothly. “As you know, I am a great advocate for
frankness. Frankness in word and thought, in subordinate and superior. I
have always been frank with you, and from you I expect similar
treatment. It appears to me that there is still something unsatisfactory
respecting your successfully executed mission. It is in connection with
this Englishman. Is it not so?”
René Drucquer moved a little, changing his attitude and clasping his
hands one over the other.
“He is not such as I expected,” he replied after a pause.
“No,” said the Provincial meditatively. “They are a strange race. Some
of them are strong--very strong indeed. But most of them are foolish;
and singularly self-satisfied. He is intelligent, this one; is it not
so?”
“Yes, I think he is very intelligent.”
“Was he violent or abusive?”
“No; he was calm and almost indifferent.”
For some moments the Provincial thought deeply. Then he waved his hand
in the direction of a chair which stood with its back towards the window
at the end of the table.
“Take a seat, my son,” he said, “I have yet many questions to ask you. I
am afraid I forgot that you might be tired.”
“Now tell me,” he continued, when René had seated himself, “do you think
this indifference was assumed by way of disarming suspicion and for the
purpose of effecting a speedy escape?”
“No!”
“Did you converse together to any extent?”
“We were naturally thrown together a great deal; especially after the
death of the 'patron.' He was of great assistance to me and to Hoel
Grall, the second in command, by reason of his knowledge of seamanship.”
“Ah! He is expert in such matters?”
“Yes, my father.”
A further note was here added to the partially-filled page of the
manuscript book.
“Of what subjects did he speak? Of religion, our Order, politics,
himself and his captivity?”
“Of none of those.”
The Provincial leant back suddenly in his chair, and for some minutes
complete silence reigned in the room. He was evidently thinking deeply,
and his eyes were fixed upon the open book with inscrutable immobility.
Once he glanced slowly towards René Drucquer, who sat with downcast eyes
and interlocked fingers. Then he pressed back his elbows and inhaled a
deep breath, as if weary of sitting in one position.
“I have met Englishmen,” he said speculatively, “of a type similar--I
think--to this man. They never spoke of religion, of themselves or of
their own opinion; and yet they were not silent men. Upon most subjects
they could converse intelligently, and upon some with brilliancy; but
these subjects were invariably treated in a strictly general sense. Such
men _never_ argue, and never appear to be highly interested in that
of which they happen to be speaking.... They make excellent
listeners....” Here the speaker stopped for a moment and passed his long
hand downwards across his eyes as if the light were troubling his sight;
in doing so he glanced again towards the Abbé's fingers, which were now
quite motionless, the knuckles gleaming like ivory.
“... And one never knows quite how much they remember and how much they
forget. Perhaps it is that they hear everything ... and forget nothing.
Is our friend of this type, my son?”
“I think he is.”
“It is such men as he who have made that little island what it is. They
are difficult subjects; but they are liable to sacrifice their
opportunities to a mistaken creed they call honour, and therefore they
are not such dangerous enemies as they otherwise might have been.”
The Provincial said these words in a lighter manner, almost amounting to
pleasantry, and did not appear to notice that the priest moved uneasily
in his seat.
“Then,” he continued, “you have learnt nothing of importance during the
few days you have passed with him?”
“Nothing, my father.”
“Did he make any attempt to communicate with his friends?”
“He wrote a letter which he requested me to post.”
The Provincial leant forward in his chair and took a pen in his right
hand, while he extended his left across the table towards his companion.
“I burnt it,” said René gently.
“Ah! That is a pity. Why did you do that?”
“I had discretion!” replied the young priest, with quiet determination.
The Provincial examined the point of his pen critically, his perfectly
formed lips slightly apart.
“Yes,” he murmured reflectively. “Yes, of course, you had discretion.
What was in the letter?”
“A few words in English, telling his friends to have no anxiety, and
asking them particularly to institute no search, as he would return home
as soon as he desired to do so.”
“Ah! He said that, did he? And the letter was addressed to--”
“Mr. Carew.”
“Thank you.”
The Provincial made another note in the manuscript book. Then he read
the whole page over carefully and critically. His attitude was like that
of a physician about to pronounce a diagnosis.
“And,” he said reflectively, without looking up, “was there nothing
noticeable about him in any way? Nothing characteristic of the man, I
mean, and peculiar. How would you describe him, in fact?”
“I should say,” replied René Drucquer, “that his chief characteristic is
energy; but for some reason, during these last two days this seems to
have slowly evaporated. His resistance on Wednesday night was very
energetic--he dislocated my arm, and reset it later--and when the vessel
was in danger he was full of life. Later this peculiar indifference of
manner came over him, and hour by hour it has increased in power. It
almost seems as if he were anxious to keep away from England just now.”
The Provincial raised his long white finger to his upper lip. It was the
action of a man who is in the habit of tugging gently at his moustache
when in thought, and one would almost have said that the smooth-faced
priest had at no very distant period worn that manly ornament. His
finger passed over the shaded skin with a disagreeable, rasping sound.
“That does not sound very likely,” he said slowly. “Have you any
tangible reason, to offer in support of this theory?”
“No, my father. But the idea came to me, and so I mention it. It seemed
as if this desire came to him upon reflection, after the ship was out of
danger, and the indifference was contemporaneous with it.”
The Provincial suddenly closed the book and laid aside his pen.
“Thank you, my son!” he said, in smooth, heartless tones, “I will not
trouble you any more to-night. You will need food and rest. Good night,
my son. You have done well!”
René Drucquer rose and gravely passed down the long room. Before he
reached the door, however, the clear voice of his superior caused him to
pause for a moment.
“As you go down to the refectory,” he said, “kindly make a request that
Mr. Vellacott be sent to me as soon as he is refreshed. I do not want
you to see him before I do!”
When the door had closed behind René Drucquer the Provincial rose from
his seat and slowly paced backwards and forwards from the door to the
table. Presently he drew aside the curtain which hid a small recess near
the door, whore a simple bed and a small table were concealed. With a
brush he smoothed back his sleek hair, and, dipping the ends of his
fingers into a basin of water, he wiped them carefully. Thus he prepared
to receive Christian Vellacott.
He returned to his chair and seated himself somewhat wearily. Although
there were but few papers on the table, he had three hours' hard work
before him yet. He leant back, and again, that singular gesture, as if
to stroke a moustache that was not there, was noticeable.
“I have a dull presentiment,” he muttered reflectively, “that we have
made a mistake here. We have gone about it in the wrong way, and if
there is blame to be attached to any one, Talma is the man. That temper
of his is fatal!”
After a pause he heaved a weary sigh, and stretched his long arms out on
either side, enjoying a free and open yawn.
“Ah me!” he sighed, “what an uphill fight this has become, and day by
day it grows harder. Day by day we lose power; one hold after another
slips from our grasp. Perhaps it means that this vast organisation is
effete--perhaps, after all, we are dying of inanition, and yet--yet it
should not be, for we have the people still.... Ah! I hear footsteps.
This is our journalistic friend, no doubt. I think he will prove
interesting.”
A moment later someone knocked softly at the door. There was a slight
shuffling of feet, and Christian Vellacott entered the room alone. There
was a peculiar dull expression in his eyes, as if he were suffering
pain, mental or physical. After glancing at the mirror, the Provincial
rose and bowed formally with his hand upon the back of his chair. As the
Englishman came forward the Jesuit glanced at his face, and with a
polite motion of the hand he said:
“Sir, take the trouble of seating yourself,” speaking in French at once,
with no apology, as if well aware that his companion knew that language
as perfectly as his own.
“Thank you,” replied Christian. He drew the chair slightly forward as he
seated himself, and fixed his eyes upon the Jesuit's face. Through the
entire interview he never removed his gaze, and he noticed that until
the last words were spoken those soft, deep eyes were never raised to
his.
“I suppose,” said the Jesuit at length, almost humbly, “that we are
irreconcilable enemies, Mr. Vellacott?”
The manner in which this was spoken did not bear the slightest
resemblance to the cold superiority with which René Drucquer had been
treated.
The Englishman sat with one lean hand resting on the table and watched.
He knew that some reply was expected, but in face of that knowledge he
chose to remain silent. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek. The
inscrutable Provincial had met a foeman worthy of his steel at last. His
strange magnetic influence threw itself vainly against a will as firm as
his own, and he felt that his incidental effects, dramatic and
conversational, fell flat. Instantly he became interested in Christian
Vellacott.
“I need hardly remind a man of your discrimination, Mr. Vellacott,” he
continued tentatively, “that there are two sides to every question.”
The Englishman smiled and moved slightly in his chair, drawing in his
feet and leaning forward.
“Implying, I presume,” he said lightly, “that in this particular
question you are on one side and I upon the other.”
“Alas! it seems so.”
Vellacott leant back in his chair again and crossed his legs.
“In my turn,” he said quietly, “I must remind you, monsieur, that I am a
journalist.”
The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly and waited for
his companion to continue. His silence and the momentary motion of his
eyebrows, which in no way affected the lids, expressed admirably his
failure to see the connection of his companion's remark.
“Which means,” Christian went on to explain, “that my place is not upon
either side of the question, but in the middle. I belong to no party,
and I am the enemy of no man. I do not lead men's opinions. It is my
duty to state facts as plainly and as coldly as possible in order that
my countrymen may form their own judgment. It may appear that at one
time I write upon one side of the question; the next week I may seem to
write upon the other. That is one of the misfortunes of my calling.”
“Then we are not necessarily enemies,” said the Jesuit softly.
“No--not necessarily. On the other hand,” continued Christian, with
daring deliberation, “it is not at all necessary that we should be
friends.”
The Jesuit smiled slightly--so slightly that it was the mere ghost of a
smile, affecting the lines of his small mouth, but in no way relieving
the soft darkness of his eyes.
“Then we are enemies,” he said. “He whose follower I am, said that all
who are not with Him are against Him.”
The Englishman's lips closed suddenly, and a peculiar stony look came
over his face. There was one subject upon which he had determined not to
converse.
“I am instructed,” continued the Provincial, with a sudden change of
manner from pleasant to practical, “to ask of you a written promise
never to write one word either for or against the Society of Jesus
again. In exchange for that promise I am empowered to tender to you the
sincere apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to which you may
have been put, and to assist you in every way to return home at once.”
A great silence followed this speech. A small clock suspended somewhere
in the room ticked monotonously, otherwise there was no sound audible.
The two men sat within a yard of each other, each thinking, of the other
in his individual way, from his individual point of view, the Jesuit
with downcast eyes, his companion watching his immobile features.
At length Christian Vellacott's full and quiet tones broke the spell.
“Of course,” he said simply, “I refuse.”
The Provincial rose from his seat, pushing it back as he did so.
“Then I will not detain you any longer. You are no doubt fatigued. The
lay brother waiting outside will show you the room assigned to you, and
at whatever time of day or night you may wish to see me, remember that I
am at your service.”
Christian rose also. He appeared to hesitate, and then to grasp the
table with both hands to assist himself. He stood for a moment, and
suddenly tottered forward. Had not the Provincial caught him he would
have fallen.
“My head turns,” he mumbled incoherently.
“What is the matter? ... what is the matter?”
The Jesuit slipped his arm round him--a slight arm, but as hard and
strong as steel.
“You are tired,” he said sympathetically, “perhaps you have a little
touch of fever. Come, I will assist you to your room.”
And the two men passed out together.