MONT ST. MICHEL.
The following day Barbara was taken to a confirmation service at a
Roman Catholic church in the town, for one of Marie's younger brothers
was coming from the country to be confirmed. Barbara watched the
service curiously, feeling rather as if she were in a dream. The
bishop entered the church with much pomp, adorned in wonderful lace and
embroidered vestments. His progress up the aisle was slow, for there
were many mothers and sisters with little children, whom they presented
to him for his blessing, and he patiently stopped beside each, giving
them his ring to kiss.
He was waited on by the clergy of the church and some from the country
round, and these latter amused Barbara not a little, for they carried
their rochets in newspapers, or in shabby brown bags, which they left
in corners of the seats, while they slipped on their rochets in full
view of every one. Then the boys, accompanied by their godfathers, the
girls by their godmothers, filed slowly up to the bishop, who blessed
each in turn. On leaving him they passed in front of two priests, the
first attended by a boy bearing a basket of cotton-wool pellets dipped
in oil, the second by a boy with a basket of towels.
The first priest rubbed the forehead of each child with oil, and the
next one dried it. After which they went singing to their places.
The ceremony was a very long one, and Barbara was not very sorry when
it was over. She grew weary before the close, and was glad when they
made their way home, accompanied by Marie's father--the Loirés'
half-brother--and the little boy. The former was a farmer in the
country, and Barbara thought he was much pleasanter to look upon than
either his daughter or sisters.
Mademoiselle Loiré had provided him at lunch with his favourite
dish--shrimps--and Barbara could hardly eat anything herself, being
completely fascinated with watching him. He had helped himself pretty
liberally, and, to her amazement, began to eat them with lightning
speed. He bent fairly low over his plate, resting an elbow on each
side, and, putting in the whole shrimp with his left hand, almost
immediately seemed to take out the head and tail with the other,
working with machine-like regularity. It was an accomplishment that
Barbara was sure would bring him in a lot of money at a show, and she
began to picture to herself a large advertisement, "Instantaneous
Shrimp-eater," and the products that might arise therefrom.
When he had almost demolished the dish of shrimps he stopped, looked a
little regretfully at the _débris_ on his plate, then straightened
himself in his chair, and began to take an interest in what was going
on around him. He smiled benignly on his sisters, teased his daughter,
and looked with shy curiosity at Barbara, to whom he did not dare to
address any remarks until nearly the end of lunch. Then he said very
slowly, and in a loud voice as if speaking to a deaf person, "Has the
English mademoiselle visited the Mont St. Michel yet?"
Barbara shook her head.
"It is a pleasure for the future, I hope," she said.
"But certainly, of course, she must go there," he said, still speaking
laboriously. Then after that effort, as if exhausted, he relapsed into
silence.
But Mademoiselle Thérèse pursued the idea, and before the meal was over
had fixed a day in the following week for the excursion. As her sister
had already been at the Mont more than once, it was decided she should
remain with Marie, so that the pleasant task of accompanying Barbara
fell, as usual, to Mademoiselle Thérèse. At the last moment the
numbers were increased by the little widower, who suddenly made up his
mind to join them, with his eldest son.
"It is long since I have been," he declared, "and it is part of the
education of Jean to see the wonders of his native land. Therefore,
mademoiselle, if you permit us, we will join you to-morrow. It will be
doubly pleasant for us to go in the company of one so learned."
Mademoiselle Thérèse could not help bowing at such a compliment, but it
is doubtful whether she really appreciated the widower's proposal. The
little man was quite capable of contradicting information she might
give Barbara if he thought it incorrect, and when he was there she
could not keep the conversation entirely in her own hands.
By the girl's most earnest request, she had agreed to stay the night at
the Mont, and they started off in highest spirits by an early morning
train.
Her two companions poured into Barbara's ears a full historical account
of Mont St. Michel, sometimes agreeing, sometimes contradicting each
other, and the girl was glad that, when at last the long stretch of
weird and lonely sandflats was reached, they seemed to have exhausted
their eloquence.
"But where is the sea?" she asked in surprise. "I thought you said the
sea would be all round it."
Mademoiselle Thérèse looked a little uncomfortable.
"Yes, the sea--of course. I expected the tide would be high. It ought
to be up, I am sure. You told me too that the tide would be high," and
she turned so quickly upon the widower that he jumped nervously.
"Yes, of course, that is to say--you told me the tide should be high at
present, and I said I did not doubt it since you said it; but I heard
some one remarking a few minutes ago that it would be up to-morrow."
"Never mind," Barbara interposed, for she saw signs of a fresh
discussion. "It will be all the nicer to see it rise, I am sure."
And, fortunately, the widower and Mademoiselle Thérèse agreed with her.
The train, crowded with visitors, puffed slowly towards St. Michel, and
Barbara watched the dim outline of gray stone become clearer, till the
full beauty of the Abbaye and the Merveille burst upon her sight.
"St. Michael and All Angels," she murmured, looking up towards the
golden figure of the archangel on the top of the Abbaye. "He looks as
if guarding the place; but what cruel things went on below him."
"Shocking tragedies!" mademoiselle assured her, having heard the last
words. "Shocking tragedies! But let us be quick and get out, or else
we shall not arrive in time for the first lunch. Now you are going to
taste Madame Poulard's omelettes--a food ambrosial. You will wonder!
They alone are worth coming to the Mont St. Michel for."
They hurried out over the wooden gangway that led from the train lines
to the gate at the foot of the Mont, and entered the strange-stepped
streets, and marvelled at the houses clinging to the rock. They were
welcomed into the inn by Madame Poulard herself, who, resting for a
moment at the doorway from her labours in the kitchen, stood smiling
upon all comers.
Barbara looked with interest at the long, low dining-room, whose walls
bore tokens of the visits of so many famous men and women, and at whose
table there usually gathered folk from so many different nations.
"There is an Englishman!" she said eagerly to Mademoiselle Thérèse, for
it seemed quite a long time since she had seen one of her countrymen so
near.
"But, yes, of course," mademoiselle answered, shrugging her shoulders.
"What did you expect? They go everywhere," and she turned her
attention to her plate. "One must be fortified by a good meal," she
said in a solemn whisper to Barbara as they rose, "to prepare one for
the blood-curdling tales we are about to hear while seeing over the
Abbaye."
And though the girl allowed something for exaggeration, it was quite
true that, after hearing the stories, and seeing the pictures of those
who had perished in the dungeons, she felt very eerie when being taken
through them. In the damp darkness she seemed to realise the terror
that imprisonment there must have held, and she thought she could
almost hear the moans of the victims and the scraping of the rats, who
were waiting--for the end.
"Oh!" she cried, drawing a long breath when they once more emerged into
the open air. "You seem hardly able to breathe down there even for a
little while--and for years----" She shuddered. "How could they bear
it?"
"One learns to bear everything in this life," Mademoiselle Thérèse
replied sententiously, shaking her head and looking as if she knew what
it was to suffer acutely. "One is set on earth to learn to 'suffer and
grow strong,' as one of your English poets says."
Barbara turned away impatiently, and felt she could gladly have shaken
her companion.
"One wants to come to a place like this with nice companions or alone,"
she thought, and it was this feeling that drove her out on to the
ramparts that evening after dinner. She was feeling happy at having
successfully escaped from the noisy room downstairs, and thankful to
the game of cards that had beguiled Mademoiselle Thérèse's attention
from her, when she heard footsteps close beside her, and, turning
round, saw Jean Dubois.
"Whatever do you want here?" she said a little irritably; then, hearing
his humble answer that he had just come to enjoy the view, felt ashamed
of herself, and tried to be pleasant.
"Do you know," she said, suddenly determining to share an idea with him
to make up for her former rudeness, "we have seen Mont St. Michel from
every side but one--and that is the sea side. I should like to see it
every way, wouldn't you? I have just made a little plan, and that is
to get up early to-morrow morning, and go out across the sand till I
can see it."
"Mademoiselle!" the boy exclaimed. "But is it safe? The sands are
treacherous, and many have been buried in them."
"Yes; I know, but there are lots of footsteps going across them in all
directions, and I saw some people out there to-day. If I follow the
footprints it will be safe, for where many can go surely one may."
It took some time for Jean to grow accustomed to the idea, and he drew
his _capucine_ a little closer round him, as if the thought of such an
adventure chilled him; then he laid his hand on Barbara's arm.
"I, too," he said, "will see the view from that side. Mademoiselle
Barbara, I will come with you."
"But your father? Would he approve, do you think?"
"But assuredly," Jean said hastily; "he wishes me to get an entire idea
of Mont St. Michel--to be permeated, in fact. It is to be an
educational visit, he said."
"Very well, then. But we must be very early and very quiet, so that we
may not disturb mademoiselle. I am not confiding in her, you
understand. Can you be ready at half-past five, so that we may be back
before coffee?"
"Assuredly--at half-past five I shall be on the terrace," and Jean's
cheeks actually glowed at the thought of the adventure. "There was so
much romance in it," he thought, and pictured how nice it would be
telling the story to Marie afterwards.
Barbara herself was very gleeful, for it was nice to be able to act
without wondering whether she was showing the younger ones a good
example or not. She felt almost as if she were back at school, and
that feeling was intensified by the little cubicle bedrooms with which
the visitors at Madame Poulard's were provided. She had been a little
anxious as to whether she would awaken at the right hour, but found, on
opening her eyes next morning, that she had plenty of time to spare.
She dressed noiselessly, for mademoiselle was sleeping in the next
room, and she did not want to rouse her, and stole down the passage and
into the terrace, where Jean was waiting for her. They were early
risers at Mont St. Michel, and the servants looked with some curiosity,
mingled perhaps with disapproval, at the couple, but they recognised
the girl as being English, and of course there was no accounting for
what any of that nation did! It was a lovely morning, and Barbara,
picking her way over the rocks, hummed gaily to herself, for it was an
excursion after her own heart.
Jean cast rather a doubtful eye from the rocks to the waste of sand in
front of them, but, seeing his companion did not hesitate, he could not
either, and stepped out boldly beside her.
"You see," Barbara explained, "it is really perfectly hard here, and we
will keep quite close to the footsteps that lead right out to that
other rock out there."
"But you are surely not going as far as that?" he inquired anxiously.
"We should never be back in time for coffee."
"I don't think so," Barbara returned gaily; "but we'll see how we get
on."
When once Jean saw that the ground was perfectly sound beneath their
feet, and that the footprints went on unwaveringly, he felt reassured,
and really began to enjoy himself. They turned round every now and
then to look back at the Mont, but decided each time that they had not
got quite far enough away to get a really good effect.
"You know," said Jean, some of his fears returning after a time, "one
usually has guides--people who know the sands--to take one out so far.
I trod on a very soft place just now."
"Keep near the footprints then," Barbara answered. "The tide hasn't
been up yet, and the sands can't surely change in the night-time. Just
a little farther, and then we will stop."
They stopped a few minutes later, and both declared that the view was
well worth the walk, the only thing that Barbara regretted being that
it was too damp to sit down and enjoy it at their ease.
"It _would_ have been nice to get as far as Tombelaine," the girl said
at last, turning from St. Michel to take another look at the rocky
islet farther out; "but I suppose we really must be going home again
now."
Jean did not answer her. He had turned with her towards the rock; then
his eyes had wandered round the horizon, and had remained fixed in such
a stare that the girl wondered what he saw.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "What is it you are seeing, Jean?"
"The sea," he gasped, his face becoming ashen. "Mademoiselle--the
tide--it advances--we will be caught."
Barbara looked across the long stretch of gray sand till her eyes found
the moving line of water.
"It is nearer," she said slowly; "but of course it always comes in
every day."
"Yes--but--to-day--I had forgotten--it is to be high tide--all round
the Mont. Did you not hear them say so?"
"Yes," Barbara owned; "I remember quite well now. But let us hurry--it
is a long way off yet. We have plenty of time." She spoke
consolingly, for Jean's face was blanched and she saw he was trembling.
"But, mademoiselle, you do not understand. Did you not hear them
telling us also that the tide advances so rapidly that it catches the
quickest horse? Oh, I wish we had told some one of this journey--that
some one had seen us. They would have warned us. We should have been
safe."
It was then for the first time that the thought of danger entered
Barbara's head, and she took her companion's hand.
"Let us run, then. Quick!" she said. "We are not such a very long way
off."
Jean hesitated only a moment, his eyes, as if fascinated, still on the
water; then he turned his face towards the Mont, and sped over the sand
more fleetly than Barbara would have believed possible to him--so
fleetly, indeed, that he began to leave the girl, who was swift of
foot, behind.
She glanced over her shoulder at the sea, which certainly was drawing
in very rapidly, licking over the sand greedily, then forward at St.
Michel, and fell to a walk. She knew she could not run the whole
distance for it was not easy going on the sand, especially when an eye
had always to be kept un the guiding footprints.
[Illustration: "She glanced over her shoulder at the sea."]
It was some little time before Jean really realised she was not close
behind him; then he stopped running and waited for her.
"Go on," she shouted. "Don't wait for me, I can catch you up later."
"But it is impossible for me to leave you," he called back on regaining
his breath. "But, oh! run if you can, for the water comes very near."
One more fleeting glance behind and Barbara broke into a run again,
though her breath came in gasps.
"They are seeing us from the Mont," panted Jean. "They have come out
to watch the tide rise. Give me your hand. Do not stop! Do not stop!"
Barbara felt that, do as she would, her breath could hold out no
longer, and she slackened her pace to a walk once more. Then a great
shout went up from the people on the ramparts, and they began waving
their hands and handkerchiefs wildly. To them the two figures seemed
to be moving so slowly and the great sea behind so terribly fast.
Barbara could hear its swish, swish, near enough now, and she felt
Jean's hand tremble in her own. "Run yourself," she said, dropping it.
"Run, and I'll follow."
But he merely shook his head. To speak was waste of breath, and he
meant his to last him till he reached the rocks.
He pulled the girl into a trot again, and they plodded on heavily. It
was impossible for him to speak now, but he pointed at the rocks below
St. Michel where two men were scrambling down, and Barbara understood
that they were coming to aid.
The sea was very close--horribly close--when two fishermen met the
couple, and, taking Barbara's hands on either side, pulled her on,
while Jean panted a little way behind. The watching crowd above had
been still with fear until they saw the rocks reached; then they
shouted again and again, while the many who had scrambled down part of
the way hastened forward to see who the adventurous couple were, and to
give a helping hand if necessary.
One of the first to reach them was the little widower, his cravate
loose, his hat off, and tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Jean!" he wailed. "What have I done that you should treat me so?
What would your sainted mother say were she to see you thus?"
But neither Jean nor Barbara was capable of saying a word, and though
the fishermen were urgently assuring the girl that she was not safe
yet, that they must go round the rocks to the gate on the other side,
she remained sitting doubled up on a rock, feeling that her breath
would never come into her body again.
"Let her rest a moment," suggested one wiser than the rest. "She
cannot move till she breathes. There is yet time enough. Loosen her
collar, and let her breathe."
The sea was gurgling at the foot of the rocks when Barbara regained her
breath sufficiently to move, and she was glad enough to have strong
arms to help her on her way.
Jean and his father reached the gate first, and, therefore,
Mademoiselle Thérèse had already exhausted a little of her energy
before Barbara appeared. But she was about to fling herself in tears
upon the girl's neck when a bystander interposed.
"Let her breathe," he said. "Let her go to the inn and get
nourishment." And Barbara, the centre of an eager, excited French
crowd, was thankful, indeed, to shelter herself within Madame Poulard's
hospitable walls.
"We will probably have to stay here a week till she
recovers"--Mademoiselle Thérèse had a sympathetic audience--"she is of
delicate constitution;" and the good lady was perhaps a little
disappointed when Barbara declared herself perfectly able to go home in
the afternoon as had been arranged.
"What should prevent us?" she asked, when after a rest and something to
eat she came down to the terrace. "It was only a long race, and a
fright which I quite deserved."
"Yes, indeed, a fright!" and the Frenchwoman threw up her hands. "Such
fear as I felt when I came out to see the tide and saw you fleeing
before it. Your aunt!--Your mother!--My charge! Such visions fleeted
before my eyes. But _never, never, never_ will I trust you with Jean
any more," and she cast a vengeful look at the widower and his son, who
were seated a little farther off.
"But it wasn't his fault at all," the girl explained. "On the
contrary, I proposed it, and he joined me out of kindness. He pulled
me along, too, over the sand. Oh, indeed, you must not be angry with
Jean."
"It was very deceptive of him not to tell me--or his father. Then we
could both have come with you--or explained to you that the tide rose
early to-day. We heard it was to come early when you were out last
night. They say," she went on, shaking her head, "if it had been an
equinoctial tide, that neither of you would have escaped--there would
have been no shadow of a hope for either--you would both have been
drowned out there in the damp, wet sand."
Mademoiselle Thérèse showing signs of weeping again, Barbara hastened
to comfort her, assuring her that she would never again go out alone to
see St. Michel from that side, which she thought was a perfectly safe
promise to make. But her companion shook her head mournfully,
declaring that it would be a very long time before she brought any of
her pupils to Mont St. Michel again.
"They might really get caught next time," she said, and Barbara knew it
was no good to point out that probably there would never be another
pupil who was quite so silly as she had been.
"Nevertheless," the girl said to herself, looking back at the grand,
gray pile from the train, "except for the fright I gave them, it was
worth it all--worth it all, dear St. Michel, to see you from out
there." And Jean, looking pensively out of the window, was thinking
that since it was safely over, the adventure was one which any youth
might be proud to tell to his companions, and which few were fortunate
or brave enough to have experienced.