"WHICH WAY I FLY IS HELL--MYSELF AM HELL!"
It was the feast of St. Denys, the patron saint of France.
Over all the land, from north to south and east to west, the churches
and cathedrals were crowded on that day with worshippers bringing
offerings and gifts to the altars, praying for the saint's aid to be
still continued to them, asking for pardon for past sins, for
prosperity in the future. On that day the King himself went in state
to Nôtre Dame, accompanied by his brilliant court. In the provinces,
governors of fortresses and of departments did the same thing at the
local cathedrals; prisoners were released because of the anniversary
of St. Denys, while some of the worst among them were executed--both
as an example, and because it was the great _fête_-day and a holiday
when other people required to be amused.
In Amiens, as in all the other cities boasting a beautiful cathedral
and possessed of a strong religious element, it was the same as
elsewhere. From morning until night the bells clanged at intervals
from the towers of Nôtre Dame and the fourteen parish churches;
processions innumerable took place, masses of all kinds--Capitular,
Conventual, Missa Cantata, Missa Fidelium, Mass High and Low--were
said and sung, accompanied by Kyrie, Gloria, and Credo, by Sanctus,
Benedictus, and Agnus Dei.
But at last all was over--of a religious nature. The crowds that had
filled Nôtre Dame d'Amiens were streaming out to other forms of
celebration of the _jour de Patron_. It was the turn of the theatres
now and the family gatherings, of the dance and song and jest among
the better classes; the turn of the supper party and the wineshop and
the _courtesan_ for the remainder of the day--or rather night.
Yet, for those who still were willing to continue their religious
devotions, still to regard the occasion more as a fast than a feast,
the opportunity presented itself and was availed of by many. In every
church in the city, in the cathedral above all, worshippers still
knelt in prayer, though the hour grew late; at the confessionals
hidden priests still listened to the sins--real or imaginary--of those
who knelt before them.
In that cathedral with, still lingering about it, the odour of the
incense that had been used that day, with the organ still pealing
gently through the aisles, while at intervals the _voix celeste_, in
flute-like tones, seemed almost to utter the soul's cry, "Oh, Agnus
Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere mihi!"--those confessors sat
there, and would sit until midnight struck, to listen to and absolve
all those who sought for pardon.
"My son," came forth the muffled voice of one, his face being hidden
in the impenetrable darkness in which he sat--a darkness still more
profound since many of the lights in the great edifice had either been
extinguished or had burnt themselves out, "the confession is not yet
all made. Therefore, as yet there can be no absolution. Confess thy
sins! Continue!"
Kneeling outside, the stricken creature thus addressed, its wild hair
streaming down its back and meeting with the other unkempt hair on
cheek and chin, its eyes gleaming, like a hunted animal's, around and
up and down the dusky aisles, and glancing at pillars as though
fearing listeners behind each, went on:
"My life, oh, holy father, was in his hands. He knew all; knew I was
in France, and that he could give me up to justice to those whom I had
wronged. Oh, father, _mea culpa, mea culpa!_ Absolve me! absolve me!"
"Tell first thy sin," the muffled voice said again. "Thou hast not yet
told all. Deceive not the Church. Confession first, then absolution."
The penitent groaned and wrung his hands, threw back the locks from
his face, and then, with that face pressed close to the confessional,
hissed in a whisper:
"Father, I was mad--am mad, I think. I was sore wrought; but half an
hour before I had been assaulted and robbed by two villains of much
wealth in jewels--and--and--I feared he would denounce me for my
crimes, make my presence known. So, holy father--in my frenzy, in my
fear--I struck him dead. I slew him. Have mercy on me, God!"
"Where slew you him?" the priest's stifled voice continued.
"There, father--without, by the west door. Oh, pardon, pardon, that
here, on holy ground that should be sanctuary, I took his life!"
It seemed almost to the wretch outside the confessional that the
priest had uttered a gasp, had started in his seat, as he heard these
words; yet presently he spoke again:
"The victim being the young Scots officer found murdered more than
three months past?"
"'Tis so, holy father. 'Tis so. Oh, pardon! Pardon me! _Mea culpa, mea
culpa!_"
"What restitution have you made?" the voice was heard to ask. "What
restitution propose to make?"
"I know not what to make, father. I cannot call him back to life. What
can I, must I do?"
"Have you wronged others--man, woman, or child? Think! trifle not with
the Church. There are, doubtless, others."
"Oh, father, I have been an evil liver--a bad husband; bad friend. Set
my feet but in the right way! show me the path. And oh! father,
absolve me of this sin of blood. Above all, that!"
"Confess all," the priest said, "confess all."
Then, still shivering there, while more and more the shadows grew
within the great temple and it became more and more empty, the
wretched assassin went on, though ever and again glancing behind the
stately column and pillars as though fearing that unseen listener. He
told how, determined to gain possession of a woman whose beauty
maddened him--the more so because she despised him, or, at least,
regarded him not--he had tricked her into the belief that the man she
really loved had jilted her. Also how, when even that brought them no
nearer, he had married her. How, later on, when wearied and
exasperated by her hate and scorn, he had denied her as his wife,
hinting that he was himself a priest; yet it was a lie, for he was no
priest, having never been more that a lector.
"Almost," came forth the confessor's voice again, "art thou beyond
absolution--beyond pardon."
"No! no! no!" wailed the wretch.
"Twice hast thou used our holy Church to aid in thy deceit. First,
when thou suborned a villain and caused him to pretend he had
performed the holy office of marriage; next, when thou falsely
claimedst the office of priest to disavow thy lawful wife. Man, how
shall I absolve thee? Yet, be more careful, or thy soul is lost for
ever. Hast thou done more evil than this, committed more outrages
against the Church?"
Because, perhaps, the wretched creature was half mad with terror now,
with a new terror for his soul--whereas before he had but feared for
his body--he told all that he had done; how, indeed, he had still
further sinned against the Church in that he had set on foot a plot
having for part of its intent the ruin of a priest of that Church, a
Jesuit, one Sholto. It was all told at last.
For so long did the confessor sit silent in his unseen place that the
miserable penitent, thinking no absolution would come forth to him,
began to tremble, even to weep, and to call on him again for pardon
and for pity. But at last the other spoke:
"Art thou well-to-do in the world?" he asked. "What are thy means?"
Yes, he said he was well-to-do; he had large means in both England and
France. What portion should he set aside to appease both God and the
Church?
"All," answered the priest. "All."
"All!" he gasped. "Go forth a beggar!
"All. Ay, all. Better go forth a beggar, stand naked in the
market-place, than strip thy soul of its last chance of salvation."
"All!"
"To the last sol, the last dénier--excepting a provision for thy
unhappy wife. Thou art the shedder of blood, the blasphemer of the
Church and its holy offices, thy soul is clogged with guilt. I know
not, even then, and with all else that thou must do, if it can ever
find expiation."
"Say not so, father; absolve me, pardon me! See! see! I will do it.
Before God I swear, in this His house, that I will do it! I will
become a beggar, part with all. Only, father, give me His pardon.
Pardon, and set me free!"
"Yet, still more," said that voice, "must thou do. Listen!"
And from his lips there fell so deep a charge that the murderer,
kneeling there, knew that to save his soul in heaven he must forego
all hopes of future peace on earth. Nevermore was he to touch meat nor
aught but the coarsest black bread, never drink but water, never sleep
soft, nor lie warm again. And there was worse even than that. He was
to go forth to wild, savage parts of the world, there to pass the rest
of his existence in trying to preach God's goodness and mercy to the
heathen who knew Him not. On the promise that he would do this the
priest would give him absolution; otherwise he would refuse it, and
his soul must go to everlasting perdition.
He promised, and he was absolved!
Still sitting there, the last in the cathedral that night--for all
were gone now except those who were to guard it until midnight had
struck--he became the prey of even worse horrors than he had been
before; he was absolved as regards his soul, yet into his mind a new
fear had arisen for his body--a fear that became a spectre. He had
thought that once or twice he had recognised in the tones of the
priest's voice some that were familiar to him; now he felt sure that
they were. He had confessed to his bitterest enemy on earth--to
Archibald Sholto! to the brother of the man whom he had murdered!
This was the meaning of the awful doom passed on him--the doom of
ruin, beggary, and starvation, of expatriation to wild and savage
lands. To him! He had confessed to him of all others! Yet, was it so,
or was he, in truth, mad? He had heard of madmen who knew that they
were mad and who could yet be so cunning as to contend with that
madness, wrestle with it, subdue it--for a time. Let him do so now.
Let him think it all out. Was it, in truth, Archibald Sholto?
It might well be.
For three months he had been in hiding in a small village near Amiens,
watching over the course of events connected with his assassination of
Douglas, avoiding, above all others, yet keeping them ever under his
own view, two persons. One was Archibald, the other the woman who had
seen his face on that night--the white-faced woman in the darkened
room who had raised her finger and pointed as he did the deed.
"Avoided them," he muttered now, as he sat there in the dark, watching
the sacred lamp that burned unceasingly above the high altar, but
still engaged always in peering into the deep shadows and blackness in
which the huge pile was now enveloped--"avoided them. O God, how have
I avoided them! Yet, drawn irresistibly to where they were. Little
does he know how I have seen him officiating at his own church, or she
how I have passed her close, though unseen; even peered into her room
at night from the street, when, dragged here by--by--the fierce desire
to stand again upon the spot where--where he fell. Once, too, she
felt, unwittingly, my presence. As I brushed against her in the street
she shuddered and drew back from me. Something revealed that one
accursed had touched her."
He moaned aloud as he sat there, his head buried in his hands; then,
because his mind was now disordered and he was half mad, half sane, a
smile came on the evil face that he turned up as the moon's rays came
through the great rose window and lighted all the nave. "Yet," he
murmured, "it was in the confessional under the seal of confession. If
it was Douglas's brother, he can do naught. Naught! Confession is
sacred. That seal cannot be broken. But was it he? Was it? Was it?
"His face I could not see, but the tones were like unto his," he
continued. "And once he started--I am certain of it. O God, have I
told his brother all? His brother! His brother!"
Above, from the great tower, there boomed the striking of the
hour--midnight. And again he shuddered and moaned and whispered with
white lips:
"The very hour, the hour that I cannot hear, can never hear again,
without agony and horror unspeakable. The hour told by the same clock
that told it on that night of blood. I must go," he wailed in low,
broken tones, "must go there. He draws me to the spot; I see his
finger beckoning me nightly. His eyes met mine once, a month ago, as I
reached Paris. I thought I was free and had escaped, yet they dragged
me back to this accursed spot. I must go. I must go. He waits for me.
Ever--ever when the moon is near her full. I am absolved by him, his
brother, yet he is always beckoning me and makes me go."
A hand fell on his shoulder as he sat there, and he started up with
almost a shriek, and with his own hand thrust in his breast--perhaps
to draw some hidden knife, perhaps to still the leap his heart gave.
"Monsieur," a voice said, the voice of the old sacristan, "permit that
I disturb your pious meditations. But all are gone now, including the
priests. The cathedral is about to close."
"Yes, yes," he muttered low, "I will go. I will go. I have stayed too
long."
"By the west door, if it pleases monsieur. It is the only one open."
"The west door," the terrified creature muttered as he left the old
man putting out the last remaining lights, and so made his way towards
the exit indicated. "By the west door. It must needs be that. It is
the nearest to the spot, and he will be there waiting for me, the
moonlight shining in his glittering eyes as he beckons me to him, the
glare of reproach in them. I must go. I must go."
Down the long aisle he crept, shaking as with a palsy as he went,
starting and almost crying out again as a bat flew by and brushed his
hair with its wings, going onward to what he dreaded to see, the
phantom of the murdered man which his distracted brain conjured up
nightly.
"He will be there," he muttered again. "He will be there."
He reached the great west door--striking against the bell ropes
hanging in the tower, and gasping at the contact--and then paused at
the wicket let into the door, dreading to go out through it to meet
the ghostly figure that he knew awaited him.
Still, it must be done, and with another gasp, a smothered groan, he
stepped out through the wicket into the shadow thrown by the cathedral
wall, and gazed upon the moon-illuminated spot where Douglas had
fallen dead.
And once more he smothered a shriek that rose to his lips.
Standing above that spot, its back to him, but as he could tell by the
bent head, gazing down upon it, there was the figure of a man--a man
still as death itself; a man bare-headed.
"You have come again," he hissed in terror. "Again! Again! Mercy!
Mercy!"
Swiftly the figure turned and faced him--its eyes glistening in the
moonlight as he had said--and advanced towards him.
"Douglas!" he screamed. "Douglas! Mercy!"
"No," the figure said. "No. Not Douglas. Archibald."