library and closing the door after us. Old Prosper with the wonderful
eyes, and who was deaf, was with his master.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE PRIEST AND FAUN
On another day, while alone with old Prosper and Nance, he turned to her
and said:
"Nance, did I ever tell you about the Priest and the Faun, whom I found
in my blessed attic at the top of my secret stairway?... Yes?"
"Are you feeling quite strong enough, Monsieur Jacques?" was her gentle
answer.
"Better than I shall ever feel again," came the reply.
"I should like to hear about them," she said.
"When I found them," he began, "the Priest was seated upon a stool. His
head was bowed, about his neck was the rosary, the crucifix of which he
held in his hand. Upon his face was sorrow, a great pity, infinite
patience, gentleness. His features though rugged were softened and
refined by the strength and compassion of his heart.
"His brother, the Faun, stood facing him. He was closely enough like the
Priest for their relationship to be seen at once. Yet he who stood was a
trifle larger of body, with features bearing a wild and inhuman cast of
countenance. His small bright eyes glistened in astonishment mingled
with anger. The wide, large-lipped mouth was twisted into a leer of
contempt. The small pointed ears twitched nervously. In his hand there
was the branch of an oak all clustered with leaves and acorns.
"'So you would remain here,' said the Faun in a preternatural, highly
pitched voice which had the sound of the wind in the tree-tops, 'and
count your weary beads?... You--you would do good to man,'" he smiled.
"'I would, my brother,' came the reply in a quiet, even tone, yet
compassionate withal.
"'Ah! Out with you,' fairly shouted the Faun, 'you are no brother of
mine! I--I,' he laughed shrilly, 'am brother to the trees, to the
hills, to the river, to the old god Pan, but never--
"'Ah,' he cried, changing his tone to one of gentle pleading not unlike
a summer's breeze on the river, 'come! Come with me where the wild thyme
grows, where the rhododendron climbs the mountainside with sinuous
grace, where the lusty trout leap out of their clear course from sheer
joy of living! Come with me to the dingle where my cousin the gipsy
camps o' night. Where their maidens frolic in enticing nakedness in the
streams and the old crones chant their witches' songs. Come where men
are brave and strong and virile like my sire, the oak. Come where the
berries shall stain your mouth with gladness; the frolicsome squirrel
shall call you comrade; the fairies and elves, even the goblins of hell,
shall dance about you in moonlit revels; the great-limbed satyrs shall
teach you their bacchanalian bouts; while with amorous-breasted dryads
you will discover the delectable madness of passion.... You shall roam
the wide earth--free, alive, with love and an open heart! Come!'
"At this the priest stood, and anger lit his face. The resemblance
between them was now more marked.
"'Come with me, brother to Pan,' cried he. 'Come into the house of the
poor, the broken of spirit, the conquered, the beaten, the hopeless who
have fallen in the battle! Come into the house of death, of shame, of
ignominy. Come into the hovels of wretched, diseased hearts and leprous
souls! Come where children are born into crime, and the breasts of
mothers secrete the poisonous milk of lust! Come where all of the misery
of hell reigns, brutalizing, dwarfing, killing the souls of men. Come
and let your slender Faun's fingers bring hope and health and
opportunity.... Come?'
"Thus they struggled, the Faun and the Priest, threatening, pleading,
defying. Sometime the Faun fled to his greenwood; often the Priest to
his people. Rarely, as if they would effect a compromise, did they go
together: the Priest gladly to the hills; the Faun with terror into
town. And to-day they yet wrangle.
"I have wondered in my heart, Nance, which one of them would win."
"It is when they go together, first to the dingle, then to the street,
that I like them best. That comes nearest to the way of solution," she
said, with a smile as comprehending as it was sympathetic.
"The Priest must come to nature; the Faun, at least occasionally, to
town. May not old Pan with his pipes be the brother of the Man with the
heart of God?" she asked.
"I have given a great deal of time to living, Nance, and little enough
to thinking, but I feel that you speak the truth."
* * * * *
An hour later Monsieur l'Abbe, dreaming of France with her sunny fields,
her morning roads, and happy village streets, discovered a boy fishing
by a merry little stream.
"Do you live here?" questioned Monsieur Picot, indicating the town near
by.
"Yes," returned the boy, "I live when I am here," meaning the river and
the hills, "but I stay in the town. I know it is natural to live in the
fields.... Was it not queer that the good God should make that which is
right so different from that which is natural?"
"But the good God did not, my son," replied the priest.
"Are you sure, sir? My master thinks He did."
"Your master is wrong, my lad.... Tell me, your face seems familiar to
me," said the Abbe, "have I ever seen you before?"
"You have," replied the boy; "I am your soul."
And Monsieur l'Abbe smiled in his sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MONSIEUR L'ABBE PICOT GOES UPON A JOURNEY
As Monsieur l'Abbe Picot's illness grew and he became largely
unconscious as to what was going on about him, the more closely Nance
confined herself to nursing. Because of many urgent calls I was forced
to be away from them more than I liked, but old Doctor Longstreet spent
many hours of each day reading in the library, adjoining the bedroom, in
case he should be needed. But dear little Nance, whose face became thin
and whose eyes grew large with watching, scarcely left her patient.
Then there came the day when old Prosper went across the river in a
small skiff to a neighboring city a few miles away, returning two hours
later with the parish priest. He was an old man of delicate frame, with
the thoughtful, patient cast of countenance of the student. After the
confession, upon his return to the library, his face wore a very gentle
and peaceful expression. I have wondered at the strange words he must
have heard. He came from a charge whose sins were doubtless exceedingly
commonplace. Was there any rare and startling tale stirring his heart?
What were the struggles and experiences of the soul of this adventurous
brother of St. Francis of Assisi? If there was anything to startle, it
could be guessed only from the preoccupied manner in which he sat
looking into the fire with eyes which, when you caught them, were
brimming with wonder and with tears. The three of us, though no words
were then or ever spoken, shared with profound sympathy a common sorrow,
which we alone fully understood.
"I shall remain with you," he said. We nodded our approval, his being
the only words spoken.
All night long we kept a prayerful vigil beside the troubled bed of
Monsieur l'Abbe. For hours I leaned above him in the darkened room, lit
only by the firelight, giving him what assistance and relief lay in my
power. Nance, at the east window, gazed out into the impenetrable
darkness. For hours at a time she stood and looked as into space and
without so much as moving. Now and then she came to my side and raised
questioning eyes to my face. Upon shaking my head she would return to
her place, like a sentinel upon duty. At last, when the gray dawn shone
ghastly and ugly over the snow-covered landscape, my patient appeared to
grow easier and from a restless suffering night he sank into a very
gentle sleep. I closed the curtains about his bed and, stealing softly
across the floor, stood beside Nance.
The day was breaking. Together we stood and watched the sky turn from
its sickly pallor of many weeks' duration into wonderful shades of gold
and then to glorious crimson. All of the east was streaked with red.
Together we watched the winter's sun peep over the edge of the world and
restore the hope of the land with a smile. Together we stood and
watched and waited while the Master painted. Unconscious of anything but
the present need of the heart, forgetful of anything which now lay
eternally behind, I tenderly placed my arm about her, and Nance, with
the sob of a grief-stricken child, laid her weary head upon my breast.
The sunlight from over the hills and the river burst into the room like
an irresponsible, happy youth and flooded it with light.
"I shall need you very much now, dear," she said simply. Suddenly from
the bed we heard him call:
"My children!"
We hastened to his side and drew the curtains.
"The sun!" exclaimed he. "I own the sun," he smiled at me.
Then for a moment he caressed it and seemed to drink in its life and
beauty as it shone in lusty splendor upon his counterpane.
"Will you place some pillows behind me?" he requested.
"Now, that will do. Thank you, my dear-a," he smiled feebly at Nance,
who had deftly arranged him so that he half-way sat up.
"Ah, my little jade, I'm off for the long, white highway.... My
children, yours is the old home--
"Do not interrupt me!" he exclaimed. "I must speak now, for they are
waiting, for me.... The old house, the old Prosper, the books, and my
pleasant ghosts--I shall leave them and yet take them, that being a
special privilege allowed choice spirits--all, all yours, my dears....
As for me," here he smiled in an old familiar whimsical way, "I'm off
for Paradise!"
Nance fell sobbing to her knees and buried her face in her hands.
"What," he cried, with unnatural strength, accompanied by flights of
fantasy, "have you not heard me say, many's the time, that when I should
come to die--"
He stopped long enough to place a hand upon the head of the kneeling
girl.
"Ah, Nance, the word must not hurt you.... When I should come to die,"
he continued, "I hoped to find myself, on passing, in a certain little
house in the Rue St. Jacques, with Rogue and Columbine waiting at the
door while the good angel would be saying, 'Monsieur Picot, my
compliments.... Here, my dear Monsieur, there are no poor, no sick, no
broken-hearted. There is nothing at all to be done--no task for the
little Abbe of the Church of the Street. Take your blessed caravan and
follow _le long trimard_ of your heart's desire.... I--I, eternal
Wayfarer, am Death, and this--this is Paradise.'
"Au revoir, my son.... Au revoir, my daughter.... I'm off--off for
France!" Here he seemed to gather a moment's strength.... He attempted
to sing:
"'Will you buy any tape,
Any lace for----for----'
"I'm off, my dear-a, for Picardy, for beautiful Amiens, Rouen, to black
Rennes, for dear old Paris, for the road from Lille to Dunkerque."
Here his voice grew faint and it was with an effort he whispered:
"Sometimes, my dear-a, come here to the green and watch for me as of
old.... Who knows? Who knows, my children? Perhaps I shall be gone
forever and a day.... Perhaps," and he rose from his pillows,
"perhaps--au revoir--
"Rogue, you sacre pig of a zebra, home.... Home!"
And Monsieur l'Abbe Jacques Picot had gone upon his journey.