From _Mother of Pearl_, by Anatole France. Copyright by John Lane
Company. By permission of the publishers.
This tale the sacristan of the church of St. Eulalie at Neuville
d'Aumont told me, as we sat under the arbor of the White Horse, one fine
summer evening, drinking a bottle of old wine to the health of the dead
man, now very much at his ease, whom that very morning he had borne to
the grave with full honors, beneath a pall powdered with smart silver
tears.
"My poor father who is dead" (it is the sacristan who is speaking,) "was
in his lifetime a grave-digger. He was of an agreeable disposition, the
result, no doubt, of the calling he followed, for it has often been
pointed out that people who work in cemeteries are of a jovial turn.
Death has no terrors for them; they never give it a thought. I, for
instance, monsieur, enter a cemetery at night as little perturbed as
though it were the arbor of the White Horse. And if by chance I meet
with a ghost, I don't disturb myself in the least about it, for I
reflect that he may just as likely have business of his own to attend to
as I. I know the habits of the dead, and I know their character.
Indeed, so far as that goes, I know things of which the priests
themselves are ignorant. If I were to tell you all I have seen, you
would be astounded. But a still tongue makes a wise head, and my father,
who, all the same, delighted in spinning a yarn, did not disclose a
twentieth part of what he knew. To make up for this he often repeated
the same stories, and to my knowledge he told the story of Catherine
Fontaine at least a hundred times.
"Catherine Fontaine was an old maid whom he well remembered having seen
when he was a mere child. I should not be surprised if there were still,
perhaps, three old fellows in the district who could remember having
heard folks speak of her, for she was very well known and of excellent
reputation, though poor enough. She lived at the corner of the Rue aux
Nonnes, in the turret which is still to be seen there, and which formed
part of an old half-ruined mansion looking on to the garden of the
Ursuline nuns. On that turret can still be traced certain figures and
half-obliterated inscriptions. The late curé of St. Eulalie, Monsieur
Levasseur, asserted that there are the words in Latin, _Love is stronger
than death_, 'which is to be understood,' so he would add, 'of divine
love.'
"Catherine Fontaine lived by herself in this tiny apartment. She was a
lace-maker. You know, of course, that the lace made in our part of the
world was formerly held in high esteem. No one knew anything of her
relatives or friends. It was reported that when she was eighteen years
of age she had loved the young Chevalier d'Aumont-Cléry, and had been
secretly affianced to him. But decent folk didn't believe a word of it,
and said it was nothing but a tale concocted because Catherine
Fontaine's demeanor was that of a lady rather than that of a working
woman, and because, moreover, she possessed beneath her white locks the
remains of great beauty. Her expression was sorrowful, and on one finger
she wore one of those rings fashioned by the goldsmith into the
semblance of two tiny hands clasped together. In former days folks were
accustomed to exchange such rings at their betrothal ceremony. I am sure
you know the sort of thing I mean.
"Catherine Fontaine lived a saintly life. She spent a great deal of time
in churches, and every morning, whatever might be the weather, she went
to assist at the six o'clock Mass at St. Eulalie.
"Now one December night, whilst she was in her little chamber, she was
awakened by the sound of bells, and nothing doubting that they were
ringing for the first Mass, the pious woman dressed herself, and came
downstairs and out into the street. The night was so obscure that not
even the walls of the houses were visible, and not a ray of light shone
from the murky sky. And such was the silence amid this black darkness,
that there was not even the sound of a distant dog barking, and a
feeling of aloofness from every living creature was perceptible. But
Catherine Fontaine knew well every single stone she stepped on, and, as
she could have found her way to the church with her eyes shut, she
reached without difficulty the corner of the Rue aux Nonnes and the Rue
de la Paroisse, where the timbered house stands with the tree of Jesse
carved on one of its massive beams. When she reached this spot she
perceived that the church doors were open, and that a great light was
streaming out from the wax tapers. She resumed her journey, and when she
had passed through the porch she found herself in the midst of a vast
congregation which entirely filled the church. But she did not recognize
any of the worshipers and was surprised to observe that all of these
people were dressed in velvets and brocades, with feathers in their
hats, and that they wore swords in the fashion of days gone by. Here
were gentlemen who carried tall canes with gold knobs, and ladies with
lace caps fastened with coronet-shaped combs. Chevaliers of the Order of
St. Louis extended their hands to these ladies, who concealed behind
their fans painted faces, of which only the powdered brow and the patch
at the corner of the eye were visible! All of them proceeded to take
their places without the slightest sound, and as they moved neither the
sound of their footsteps on the pavement, nor the rustle of their
garments could be heard. The lower places were filled with a crowd of
young artisans in brown jackets, dimity breeches, and blue stockings,
with their arms round the waists of pretty blushing girls who lowered
their eyes. Near the holy water stoups peasant women, in scarlet
petticoats and laced bodices, sat upon the ground as immovable as
domestic animals, whilst young lads, standing up behind them, stared out
from wide-open eyes and twirled their hats round and round on their
fingers, and all these sorrowful countenances seemed centred irremovably
on one and the same thought, at once sweet and sorrowful. On her knees,
in her accustomed place, Catherine Fontaine saw the priest advance
toward the altar, preceded by two servers. She recognized neither priest
nor clerks. The Mass began. It was a silent Mass, during which neither
the sound of the moving lips nor the tinkle of the bell was audible.
Catherine Fontaine felt that she was under the observation and the
influence also of her mysterious neighbor, and when, scarcely turning
her head, she stole a glance at him, she recognized the young Chevalier
d'Aumont-Cléry, who had once loved her, and who had been dead for five
and forty years. She recognized him by a small mark which he had over
the left ear, and above all by the shadow which his long black eyelashes
cast upon his cheeks. He was dressed in his hunting clothes, scarlet
with gold lace, the very clothes he wore that day when he met her in St.
Leonard's Wood, begged of her a drink, and stole a kiss. He had
preserved his youth and good looks. When he smiled, he still displayed
magnificent teeth. Catherine said to him in an undertone:
"'Monseigneur, you who were my friend, and to whom in days gone by I
gave all that a girl holds most dear, may God keep you in His grace! O,
that He would at length inspire me with regret for the sin I committed
in yielding to you; for it is a fact that, though my hair is white and I
approach my end, I have not yet repented of having loved you. But, dear
dead friend and noble seigneur, tell me, who are these folk, habited
after the antique fashion, who are here assisting at this silent Mass?'
"The Chevalier d'Aumont-Cléry replied in a voice feebler than a breath,
but none the less crystal clear:
"'Catherine, these men and women are souls from purgatory who have
grieved God by sinning as we ourselves sinned through love of the
creature, but who are not on that account cast off by God, inasmuch as
their sin, like ours, was not deliberate.
"'Whilst separated from those whom they loved upon earth, they are
purified in the cleansing fires of purgatory, they suffer the pangs of
absence, which is for them the most cruel of tortures. They are so
unhappy that an angel from heaven takes pity upon their love-torment. By
the permission of the Most High, for one hour in the night, he reunites
each year lover to loved in their parish church, where they are
permitted to assist at the Mass of Shadows, hand clasped in hand. These
are the facts. If it has been granted to me to see thee before thy
death, Catherine, it is a boon which is bestowed by God's special
permission.'
"And Catherine Fontaine answered him:
"'I would die gladly enough, dear, dead lord, if I might recover the
beauty that was mine when I gave you to drink in the forest.'
"Whilst they thus conversed under their breath, a very old canon was
taking the collection and proffering to the worshipers a great copper
dish, wherein they let fall, each in his turn, ancient coins which have
long since ceased to pass current: écus of six livres, florins, ducats
and ducatoons, jacobuses and rose-nobles, and the pieces fell silently
into the dish. When at length it was placed before the Chevalier, he
dropped into it a louis which made no more sound than had the other
pieces of gold and silver.
"Then the old canon stopped before Catherine Fontaine, who fumbled in
her pocket without being able to find a farthing. Then, being unwilling
to allow the dish to pass without an offering from herself, she slipped
from her finger the ring which the Chevalier had given her the day
before his death, and cast it into the copper bowl. As the golden ring
fell, a sound like the heavy clang of a bell rang out, and on the stroke
of this reverberation the Chevalier, the canon, the celebrant, the
servers, the ladies and their cavaliers, the whole assembly vanished
utterly; the candles guttered out, and Catherine Fontaine was left alone
in the darkness."
Having concluded his narrative after this fashion, the sacristan drank a
long draught of wine, remained pensive for a moment, and then resumed
his talk in these words:
"I have told you this tale exactly as my father has told it to me over
and over again, and I believe that it is authentic, because it agrees in
all respects with what I have observed of the manners and customs
peculiar to those who have passed away. I have associated a good deal
with the dead ever since my childhood, and I know that they are
accustomed to return to what they have loved.
"It is on this account that the miserly dead wander at night in the
neighborhood of the treasures they conceal during their life time. They
keep a strict watch over their gold; but the trouble they give
themselves, far from being of service to them, turns to their
disadvantage; and it is not a rare thing at all to come upon money
buried in the ground on digging in a place haunted by a ghost. In the
same way deceased husbands come by night to harass their wives who have
made a second matrimonial venture, and I could easily name several who
have kept a better watch over their wives since death than they ever did
while living.
"That sort of thing is blameworthy, for in all fairness the dead have no
business to stir up jealousies. Still I do but tell you what I have
observed myself. It is a matter to take into account if one marries a
widow. Besides, the tale I have told you is vouchsafed for in the
manner following:
"The morning after that extraordinary night Catherine Fontaine was
discovered dead in her chamber. And the beadle attached to St. Eulalie
found in the copper bowl used for the collection a gold ring with two
clasped hands. Besides, I'm not the kind of man to make jokes. Suppose
we order another bottle of wine?..."
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