|ST. MARLEAU was agog. St. Marleau was hysterical. St. Marleau was
on tiptoe. It was in the throes of excitement, and the excitement was
sustained by expectancy. It wagged its head in sapient prognostication
of it did not quite know what; it shook its head in a sort of amazed
wonder that such things should be happening in its own midst; and it
nodded its head with a profound respect, not unmixed with veneration,
for its young curé--the good, young Father Aubert, as St. Marleau,
old and young, had taken to calling him, since it would not have been
natural to have called him anything else.
The good, young Father Aubert! Ah, yes--was he not to be loved and
respected! Had he not, for three nights and two days now, sacrificed
himself, until he had grown pale and wan, to watch like a mother at the
bedside of the dying murderer, who did not die! It was very splendid of
the young curé; for, though Madame Lafleur and her daughter beseeched
him to take rest and to let them watch in his stead, he would not listen
to them, saying that he was stronger than they and better able to stand
it, and that, since it was he who had had the stranger brought to the
_presbytère_, it was he who should see that no one else was put to any
more inconvenience than could be avoided.
Ah, yes,--it was most certainly the good, young Father Aubert! For, on
the short walks he took for the fresh air, the very short walks, always
hurrying back to the murderer's bedside, did he not still find time for
a friendly and cheery word for every one he met? It was a habit, that,
of his, which on the instant twined itself around the heart of St.
Marleau, that where all were strangers to him, and in spite of his own
anxiety and weariness, he should be so kindly interested in all the
little details of each one's life, as though they were indeed a part of
his own. How could one help but love the young curé who stopped one on
the village street, and, man, woman or child, laid his hand in frank and
gentle fashion upon one's shoulder, and asked one's name, and where one
lived, and about one's family, and for the welfare of those who were
dear to one? And did not both Madame Lafleur and her daughter speak
constantly of how devout he was, that he was never without a prayer-book
in his hand? Ah, indeed, it was the good, young Father Aubert!
But this in no whit allayed the hysteria, the excitement and the
expectancy under which St. Marleau laboured. A murder in St. Marleau!
That alone was something that the countryside would talk about for years
to come. And it was not only the murder; it was--what was to happen
next! It was Mother Blondin's son who had been murdered by the stranger,
and Mother Blondin, though not under arrest, was being watched by the
police, who waited for the man in the _presbytère_ to die. It was Mother
Blondin who had struck the murderer, and if the murderer died then she
would be responsible for the man's death. What, then, would they do with
Mother Blondin?
St. Marleau, not being well versed in the law, did not know; it knew
only that the assistant chief of the Tournayville police had installed
himself in the Tavern where he could see that Mother Blondin did not
run away, since the man at the _presbytère_ did not need any police
watching, and that this assistant chief of the Tournayville police was
as dumb as an oyster, and looked only very wise, like one who has great
secrets locked in his bosom, when questions were put to him.
And then, another thing--the funeral of Théophile Blondin. It was only
this morning--the third morning after the murder--that that had been
decided. Mother Blondin had raved and cursed and sworn that she would
not let the body of her son enter the church. But Mother Blondin was
not, perhaps, as much heretic as she wanted, or pretended, to be. Mother
Blondin, perhaps, could not escape the faith of the years when she
was young; and, while she scoffed and blasphemed, in her soul God was
stronger than she, and she was afraid to stand between her dead son and
the rites of Holy Church in which, through her own wickedness, she could
not longer participate. But, however that might be, the people of St.
Marleau, that is those who were good Christians and had respect for
themselves, were concerned little with such as Mother Blondin, or,
for that matter, with her son--but the funeral of a man who had been
murdered right in their midst, and that was now to take place! Ah, that
was quite another matter!
And so St. Marleau gathered in a sort of breathless unanimity that
morning to the tolling of the bell, as the funeral procession of
Théophile Blondin began to wend its way down the hill--and within the
sacred precincts of the church the villagers, as best they might, hushed
their excitement in solemn and decorous silence.
And at the church door, in surplice and stole, the altar boy beside
him, as the cortège approached, stood Raymond Chapelle--the good, young
Father Aubert.
He was very pale; the dark eyes were sunk deep in their sockets from
three sleepless nights, and from the torment of constant suspense, where
each moment in the countless hours had been pregnant with the threat
of discovery, where each second had swung like some horrible pendulum
hesitating between safety--and the gallows. He could not escape this
sacrilege that he was about to commit. There was no escape from it. They
had thought it strange, perhaps, that he had not said mass on those two
mornings that were gone. It was customary; but he knew, too, that it was
not absolutely obligatory--and so, through one excuse and another, he
had evaded it. And even if it had been obligatory, he would still have
had to find some way out, to have taken the law temporarily, as it were,
into his own hands--for he would not have dared to celebrate the mass.
Dared? Because of the sacrilege, the meddling with sacred things? Ah,
no! What was his creed--that he feared neither God nor devil, nor man
nor beast! What was that toast he had drunk that night in Ton-Nugget
Camp--he, and Three-Ace Artie, and Arthur Leroy, and Raymond Chapelle!
No; it was not _that_ he feared--it was this sharp-eyed altar boy, this
lad of twelve, who at the mass would be always at his elbow. But he was
no longer afraid of the boy, for now he was ready. He had realised
that he could not escape performing some of the offices of a priest, no
matter what happened to that cursed fool lying over yonder there in the
_presbytère_ upon the bed, who seemed to get better rather than worse,
and so--he had overheard Madame Lafleur confide it to the doctor--he
had been of a devoutness rarely seen. Through the nights and through the
days, spurred on by a sharper, sterner prod than his father's gold in
the old school days had been, he had poured and studied over the ritual
and the theological books that he had found in the priest's trunk, until
now, committing to memory like a parrot, he was thoroughly master of
anything that might arise--especially this burial of Théophile Blondin
which he had foreseen was not likely to be avoided, in spite of the
attitude of that miserable old hag, the mother.
Raymond's head was slightly bowed, his eyes lowered--but his eyes,
nevertheless, were allowing nothing to escape them. They were extremely
clumsy, and infernally slow out there in bringing the casket into
the church! He would see to it that things moved with more despatch
presently! There was another reason why he had not dared to act as a
priest in the church before--that man over there in the _presbytère_
upon the bed. He had, on that first morning, not dared to leave the
other, and it had been the same yesterday morning. True, to avert
suspicion, he had gone out sometimes, but never far, never out of call
of the _presbytère_--which was a very different matter from being caught
in the midst of a service where his hands would have been tied and he
could not have instantly returned. It was strange, very strange about
the wounded priest, who, instead of dying, appeared to be stronger,
though he lay in a sort of comatose condition--and now the doctor even
held out hopes of the man's recovery! Suppose--suppose the priest should
regain consciousness now, at this moment, while he was in the act of
conducting the funeral, in the other's stead, over the body of the man
for whose murder, in _his_, Raymond's, stead, the other was held
guilty! He was juggling with ghastly dice! But he could not have escaped
this--there was no way to avoid this funeral of the son of that old hag
who had run screaming, “murder--murder--murder,” into the storm that
night.
He raised his head. It was the gambler now, steel-nerved, accepting the
chances against him, to all outward appearances impassive, who stood
there in the garb of priest. He was cool, possessed, sure of himself,
cynical of all things holy, disdainful of all things spiritual,
contemptuous of these villagers around him that he fooled--as he would
have been contemptuous of himself to have hesitated at the plunge,
desperate though it was, that was his one and only chance for liberty
and life.
Ha! At last--eh? They had brought Théophile Blondin to the door!
And then Raymond's voice, rich, full-toned, stilled that queer, subdued,
composite sound of breathings, of the rustle of garments, of slight,
involuntary movements--of St. Marleau crowded in the pews in strained,
tense waiting.
_“'Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine; Domine quis sustinebit?_--If
Thou, O Lord, wilt mark iniquities; Lord, who shall abide it?”
It was curious that the service should begin like that, curious that he
had not before found any meaning or significance in the words. He had
learned them like a parrot. “If Thou, O Lord, wilt mark iniquities....”
He bowed his head to hide the tightening of his lips. Bah, what was
this! Some inner consciousness inanely attempting to suggest that there
was not only significance in the words, but that the significance was
personal, that the very words from his lips, performing the office of
priest, desecrating God's holy place, was iniquity, black, blasphemous
and abhorrent in God's sight--if there were a God!
Ah, that was it--if there were a God! He was reciting now the _De
Profundis_ in a purely mechanical way. “Out of the depths....”
If there were a God--yes, that was it! He had never believed there was,
had he? He did not believe it now--but he would make one concession.
What he was doing was not in intent blasphemous, neither was it to
mock--it was to save his life. He was a man with a halter strangling
around his neck. And if there was a God, who then had brought all
this about? Who then was responsible, and who then should accept the
consequences? Not he! He had not sought from choice to play the part of
priest! He had not sought the life of this dead man in the coffin there
in front of him! He had not sought to--yes, curse it, it was the word to
use--kill the drunken, besotted, worthless fool!
A cold anger came, steadying his nerves. It was too bad that in some
way he could not wreck a vengeance on the corpse for all this--the
miserable, rum-steeped hound who had got him into this hellish fix.
They were bearing the body into the church toward the head of the nave.
He was at the _Subvenite_ now. “'...Kyrie eleison.”
The boyish treble, hushed yet clear, of young Gauthier Beaulieu, the
altar boy, rose from beside him in the responses:
“'Christe eleison”
“Lord, have mercy.... From the gate of hell,”
“Deliver his soul, O Lord.”
Again! That sense of solemnity, that personal implication in the words!
It was coincidence, nothing more. No; it was not even that! He was
simply twisting the meaning, allowing himself to be played with by a
warped imagination. He was not a weak fool, was he, to let this get the
better of him? And, besides, he would hurry through with it, and since
he would say neither office nor mass it would not take long. It must be
hot this summer morning, though he had not noticed it particularly when
he had left the _presbytère_. The church seemed heavy and oppressive.
Strange how the pews were all lined with eyes staring at him!
The tread of feet up the aisle died away. The bier was set at the head
of the nave, and lighted candles placed around it. There fell a silence,
utter and profound.
Why was it now that his lips scarcely moved, that his voice was scarcely
audible; why that sudden foreboding, intangible yet present everywhere,
at his temerity, at his unhallowed, hideous perversion of sanctity in
that he should pray as a priest of God, in the habiliments of one of
God's ministers, in God's church--ay, it was a devil's masquerade, for
he, if never before, stood branded now, sealing that blasphemous toast,
a disciple of hell.
“'_Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine_....' Enter not into
judgment with Thy servant, O Lord....”
And so he denied God, did he? And so he was callous and indifferent, and
scoffed at the possibility of a church, simply because it was a church,
being the abiding place of a higher, holier, omnipotent presence? Why,
then, that hoarseness in his throat--why, then, did he not shout his
parrot words high to the vaulted roof in triumphant defiance? Why that
struggle with his will to finish the prayer?
From the little organ loft in the gallery over the door, floated now the
notes of the _Responsory_, and the voices of the choir rolled solemnly
through the church:
“'_Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna...._' Deliver me, O Lord, from
eternal death....”
Death! Eternal death! What was death? There was a dead man there in the
casket--dead because he and the man had fought together, and the other
had been killed. And he was burying, in a church, as a priest, he, who
was the one upon whom the law would set its claws if it but knew, the
man that he had killed! It came suddenly, with terrific force, blotting
out those wavering candle flames around the coffin, the scene of that
night. The wind was howling; that white-scarred face was cheek to cheek
with him; they lunged and staggered around that dimly lighted room, he
and the man who lay dead there in the coffin. They struggled for the
revolver; that old hag circled about them like a swirling hawk--that
blinding flash--the acrid smell of powder--the room revolving around
and around--and the dead man, who was here in the coffin now, had
lain sprawled out there on the floor. He shivered--and cursed himself
fiercely the next instant--it seemed as though the casket suddenly
opened, and that ugly, venomous, scarred face lifted up and leered at
him.
“'_Dies ilia, dies iræ...,'_” came the voices of the choir. “That day, a
day of wrath....”
His jaws clenched. He pulled himself together. That was Valerie up there
playing the little organ; Valerie with the great, dark eyes, and the
beautiful face; Valerie, who thought it so unselfish of him because he
had had a couch made up in the room in order that he might not leave
the wounded man. The wounded man! Following the order of the service,
Raymond was putting incense into the censer while the _Responsory_ was
being sung, and his fingers gripped hard upon the vessel. Again that
thought to torture and torment him! Had he not enough to do to go
through with this! Who was with the wounded man now? That
officious, nosing fool, who preened himself on the strength of being
assistant-chief of police of some pitiful little town that no one
outside of its immediate vicinity had ever heard of before? Or was it
Madame Lafleur? But what, after all, did it matter who was there--if
the man should happen to regain his senses? Ha, ha! Would it not be a
delectable sight if that police officer should arrest him, strip these
priestly trappings from him just as he left the church! It would be
quite a dramatic scene, would it not--quite too damnably dramatic! He
was swinging with that infernal pendulum between liberty and death. He
was, at that moment, if ever a man was, or had been, the sport of fate.
He had not liked the looks of the wounded priest half an hour ago when
he had left the _presbytère_ for the sacristy--it had seemed as though
the man were beginning to look _healthy._
“'_Kyrie eleison....'_” The _Responsory_ was over. In a purely
mechanical way again he was proceeding with the service. As the ritual
prescribed, he passed round the bier with sprinkler and censer--and
presently he found himself reciting the last prayer of that part of the
service held within the church; and then the bier was being lifted and
borne down the aisle again.
Out into the sunlight, to the smell of the fields, to the breeze from
the river wafting upon his cheek! He drew in a deep breath--and almost
at the same instant passed his hand heavily across his eyes. He had
thought that stifling heat, that overwhelming oppressiveness all in
the atmosphere of the church; but here was the sunlight, and here the
fields, and here the soft breeze blowing from the water--yet that sense
of foreboding, a prescience, a weight upon him that sank deep to the
soul, remained with him still.
Slowly the procession passed around the green in front of the church,
and through the gate of the whitewashed fence into the little burial
ground beyond on the river's bank. They were chanting _In Paradisum_,
but Valerie was no longer with the choir, for now, as they passed
through the gate, he saw her, a slim figure all in white, hurry across
the green toward the _presbytère._
What was this before him! It was not the smell of fields, but the smell
of freshly turned earth--a grave. The grave of Théophile Blondin, the
man whom he had fought with--and killed. And he was a priest of God,
burying Théophile Blondin. What ghastly, hellish travesty! What were
those words returning to his memory, coming to him out of the dim past
when he was still a boy, and still susceptible to the teachings of the
fathers who had sought to guide him into the church--God is not mocked.
“God is not mocked! God is not mocked!”--the words seemed to echo
and reverberate around him, they seemed to be thundered in a voice of
vengeance. “God is not mocked!”--and he was _blessing_ the grave of
Théophile Blondir!
Did these people, gathered, clustered about him, not hear that voice!
Why did they not hear it? It was not the _Benedictus_ that was being
sung that prevented them from hearing it, for he could scarcely hear the
_Benedictus._
Raymond's lips moved. “I am not mocking God,” he whispered. “I do not
believe in God, but I am not mocking. I am asking only for my life. I am
taking only the one chance I have. I did not intend to kill the fool--he
killed himself. I am no murderer. I----” He shivered suddenly again, as
once in the church he had shivered before. His hands outstretched seemed
to be creeping again toward a bare throat that lay exposed upon a bed,
the feel of soft, pulsing flesh seemed upon his finger tips. And then
a diabolical chortle seemed to rattle in his ears. So murder was quite
foreign to him, eh? And he did not believe in God? And he was quite
above and apart from all such nonsense? And therein, of course, lay the
reason why the tumbling of this dead thing into a grave left him so
cool and imperturbable; and why the solemn words of the service had no
meaning; and why it was a matter of supreme unconcern to him, provided
he was not caught at it, that he took God's words upon his lips, and
God's garb upon his shoulders!
White-faced, Raymond lifted his head. The _Benedictus_ was ended,
and now the words came slowly from his lips in a strange, awed, almost
wondering way.
“_'Requiem oternam.... Ego sum resurrectio et vita....'_ I am the
Resurrection and the Life: he that believeth in Me, although he be dead,
shall live: and every one who liveth, and believeth in Me, shall never
die.”
His voice faltered a little, steadied by a tremendous effort of will,
and went on again, low-toned, through the responses and short prayer
that closed the service. “'_Kyrie eleison'..._ not into temptation....
'_Requiem oternam_.'... '_Requiescat in pace'..._ through the mercy of
God.... 'Amen.'”
Forgotten for the moment was that grim pendulum that hovered over the
bed in the _presbytère_ yonder, and by the side of the grave Raymond
stood and looked down on the coffin of Théophile Blondin. The people
began to disperse, but he was scarcely conscious of it. It seemed that
he had run the gamut of every human emotion since he had met the
funeral procession at the church door; but here was another now--an
incomprehensible, quiet, chastened, questioning mood. They were very
beautiful words, these, that he was repeating to himself. He did not
believe them, but they were very beautiful, and to one who did believe
they must offer more than all of life could hold.
“'I am the resurrection and the life... he that be-lieveth in Me...
shall never die.'”
There was another gateway in the little whitewashed fence, a smaller one
that gave on the sacristy at the side and toward the rear of the church.
Slowly, head bowed, absorbed, unconscious of the rôle he played so
well, Raymond walked toward the gate, and through it, and, raising his
head, paused. A shrivelled and dishevelled form crouched there against
the palings. It was old Mother Blondin.
And Raymond stared--and suddenly a wave of immeasurable pity, mingling
a miserable sense of distress, swept upon him. In there was forbidden
ground to her; and in there was her son--killed in a fight with him. She
had come around here to the side, unobserved, unless Dupont were lurking
somewhere about, to be as near at the last as she could. An old hag,
wretched, dissolute--but human above all things else, huddling before
the dying embers of mother-love. She did not look up; her forehead was
pressed close against the fence as she peered inside; a withered, dirty
hand clutched fiercely at a paling on each side of her face.
Raymond stepped toward her, and spontaneously laid his hand upon her
shoulder. And strange words were on his lips, but they were sincere
words out of a heart torn and troubled and dismayed, out of a soul that
had recoiled as before some tremendous cataclysm. And his words were the
words he had been repeating over and over to himself.
“'I am the resurrection and the life...' My poor, poor woman, let me
help you. See, you must not mourn that way alone. Come, let me take you
back to your home----”
She rose to her feet, and looked at him, and for an instant the hard,
set, wrinkled face seemed to soften, and into the blear eyes seemed to
spring a mist of tears--then her face contorted into livid fury, and she
struck at his hand, flinging it from her shoulder.
“You go to hell!” she snarled. “You, and all like you, you go to hell!”
She was gone--shuffling around the corner of the church.
And then Raymond laughed a little. It was like a dash of cold water in
the face. He had been a fool--a fool all morning, a fool to let
mere words, mere environment have any influence upon him, a fool
to sentimentality in talking to her like that, mawkish to have used
the words! He would have said what she had said to any one else, if he
had been in her place--only more bitterly, more virulently, if that were
possible.
He shrugged his shoulders, and moved on toward the sacristy to divest
himself of his surplice and stole--and again he paused, this time in the
doorway, and turned around, as a voice cried out his name.
“Father Aubert!”
It was Valérie, running swiftly toward him from the _presbytère_.
And Raymond stood still and waited. Intuitively he knew. Something had
happened in the _presbytère_ at last. He was the gambler again, cool,
imperturbable, steel-nerved, with the actual crisis upon him. It was the
turn of the card, the throw of the dice, that was all. Was it life--or
death? It was Valérie who was to pronounce the sentence. She reached
him, breathless, flushed. He smiled at her.
“Monsieur le Curé--Father Aubert,” she panted, “come quickly! He can
speak! He has regained consciousness!”