Minima was so much worse that night, that Monsieur Laurentie gave me
permission to sit up with Mademoiselle Thérèse, to watch beside her.
There was a kindly and unselfish disposition about Monsieur le Curé
which it was impossible to resist, or even gainsay. His own share of the
trouble, anxiety, and grief, was so large, that he seemed to stand above
us all, and be naturally our director and ruler. But to-night, when I
begged to stay with Minima, he conceded the point without a word.
Mademoiselle Thérèse was the most silent woman I ever met. She could
pass a whole day without uttering a word, and did not seem to suffer any
_ennui_ from her silence. In the house she wore always, like the other
inhabitants of the village, men and women, soundless felt socks, which
slipped readily into the wooden _sabots_ used for walking out-of-doors.
I was beginning to learn to walk in _sabots_ myself, for the time was
drawing rapidly near when otherwise I should be barefoot.
With this taciturn Frenchwoman I entered upon my night-watch by Minima,
whose raving no one could understand but myself. The long, dark hours
seemed interminable. Mademoiselle sat knitting a pair of gray stockings
in the intervals of attendance upon our patients. The subdued glimmer
of the night-lamp, the ticking of the clock, the chimes every quarter of
an hour from the church-tower, all conspired to make me restless and
almost nervous.
"Mademoiselle," I said, at last, "talk to me. I cannot bear this
tranquillity. Tell me something."
"What can I tell you, madame?" she inquired, in a pleasant tone.
"Tell me about those people I saw this morning," I answered.
"It is a long history," she said, her face kindling, as if this were a
topic that excited her; and she rolled up her knitting, as though she
could not trust herself to continue that while she was talking; "all the
world knows it here, and we never talk of it now. Bat you are a
stranger; shall I tell it you?"
I had hit upon the only subject that could unlock her lips. It was the
night-time too. At night one is naturally more communicative than in the
broad light of day.
"Madame," she said, in an agitated voice, "you have observed already
that my brother is not like other curés. He has his own ideas, his own
sentiments. Everybody knows him at this moment as the good Curé of
Ville-en-bois; but when he came here first, thirty years ago, all the
world called him infidel, heretic, atheist. It was because he would make
many changes in the church and parish. The church had been famous for
miracles; but Francis did not believe in them, and he would not
encourage them. There used to be pilgrimages to it from all the country
round; and crowds of pilgrims, who spend much money. There was a great
number of crutches left at the shrine of the Virgin by cripples who had
come here by their help, but walked away without them. He cleared them
all away, and called them rubbish. So every one said he was an
infidel--you understand?"
"I understand it very well," I said.
"Bien! At that time there was one family richer than all the others.
They were the proprietors of the factory down yonder, and everybody
submitted to them. There was a daughter not married, but very dévote. I
have been dévote, myself. I was coquette till I was thirty-five, then I
became dévote. It is easier than being a simple Christian, like my
brother the curé. Mademoiselle Pineau was accustomed to have visions,
ecstasies. Sometimes the angels lifted her from the ground into the air
when she was at her prayers. Francis did not like that. He was young,
and she came very often to the confessional, and told him of these
visions and ecstasies. He discouraged them, and enjoined penances upon
her. Bref! she grew to detest him, and she was quite like a female curé
in the parish. She set everybody against him. At last, when he removed
all the plaster images of the saints, and would have none but wood or
stone, she had him cited to answer for it to his bishop."
"But what did he do that for?" I asked, seeing no difference between
plaster images, and those of wood or stone.
"Madame, these Normans are ignorant and very superstitious," she
replied; "they thought a little powder from one of the saints would cure
any malady. Some of the images were half-worn away with having powder
scraped off them. My brother would not hold with such follies, and his
bishop told him he might fight the battle out, if he could. No one
thought he could; but they did not know Francis. It was a terrible
battle, madame. Nobody would come to the confessional, and every month
or so, he was compelled to have a vicaire from some other parish to
receive the confessions of his people. Mademoiselle Pineau fanned the
flame, and she had the reputation of a saint."
"But how did it end?" I inquired. Mademoiselle's face was all aglow, and
her voice rose and fell in her excitement; yet she lingered over the
story as if reluctant to lose the rare pleasure of telling it.
"In brief, madame," she resumed, "there was a terrible conflagration in
the village. You perceive that all our houses are covered with tiles? In
those days the roofs were of thatch, very old and very dry, and there
was much timber in the walls. How the fire began, the good God alone
knows. It was a sultry day in July; the river was almost dry, and there
was no hope of extinguishing the flames. They ran like lightning from
roof to roof. All that could be done was to save life, and a little
property. My brother threw off his cassock, and worked like Hercules.
"The Pineaux lived then close by the presbytery, in a house half of
wood, which blazed like tinder; there was nothing comparable to it in
all the village. A domestic suddenly cried out that mademoiselle was in
her oratory, probably in a trance. Not a soul dares venture through the
flames to save her, though she is a saint. Monsieur le Curé hears the
rumor of it; he steps in through the doorway through which the smoke is
rolling; walks in as tranquilly as if he were going to make a visit as
pastor; he is lost to their sight; not a man stirs to look after his own
house. Bref! he comes back to the day, his brown hair all singed and his
face black, carrying mademoiselle in his arms. Good: The battle is
finished. All the world adores him."
"Continue, mademoiselle, I pray you," I said, eagerly; "do not leave off
there."
"Bien! Monsieur le Curé and his unworthy sister had a small fortune
which was spent, for the people. He begged for them; he worked with
them; he learned to do many things to help them. He lives for them and
them only. He has refused to leave them for better positions. They are
not ungrateful; they love him, they lean upon him."
"But the Pineaux?" I suggested.
"Bah! I had forgotten them. Their factory was burnt at the same time. It
is more than a kilometre from here; but who can say how far the burning
thatch might be carried on the wind? It was insured for a large sum in a
bureau in Paris. But there were suspicions raised and questions asked.
Our sacristan, Jean, who was then a young boy, affirmed that he had seen
some one carrying a lighted torch around the building, after the
work-people had all fled to see after their own houses. The bureau
refused to pay, except by a process of law; and the Pineaux never began
their process. They worked the factory a few years on borrowed money;
but they became poor, very poor. Mademoiselle ceased to be dévote, and
did not come near the church or the confessional again. Now they are
despised and destitute. Not a person goes near them, except my good
brother, whom they hate still. There remain but three of them, the old
monsieur, who is very aged, a son, and mademoiselle, who is as old as
myself. The son has the fever, and Francis visits him almost every day."
"It is a wretched, dreadful place," I said, shuddering at the
remembrance of it.
"They will die there probably," she remarked, in a quiet voice, and with
an expression of some weariness now the tale was told; "my brother
refuses to let me go to see them. Mademoiselle hates me, because in some
part I have taken her place. Francis says there is work enough for me at
home. Madame, I believe the good God sent you here to help us."