CHAPTER XXXIII.

Otago Witness, Issue 1856, 17 June 1887, Page 30

\ ■ . v "" — ■ ' ♦ . ,< I met the Cure one evening as I was returning home from, the wood where I had been sketching. ■ The fine old man was standing on the doorstep of his presbytere, looking toward the sea, which' at that moment was glorious beneath the setting sun?'. I 'bowed ''to him as I passed, for his presence t/3iad/ .always inspired, me with sympathy; and respect, and, I, knew how •muc^" this 'tribute ■ from a foreigner would gr^ify'.a/niembeiJ, 'of 1 that' 'class j which the .Republican Government is , bringing into disrespect by constant 1 persecutions. , ' ' yH6 ;returne'd ' my salute' with such kindly ;cpurte^y;' I tha't;i-tQpk > ,the opportunity which I b.ad4ong;desired of speaking to him. ' '" ; A'lovely;,sight, M. le Cure," I said, pointing^to'the sea! , , '. * ' ' vt« It is, indeed, monsieur," he answered without looking round. * ' ' 4 After a.while he added : , . • , "It is sights that reconcile one to ,this earth. ''And yet I do not know, one has always the 'bitter certainty that very soon the night, Vill come arid all will be dark." H.j. " And en attendant" I said, trying to laugh away his .evident melancholy, "if I do not get home ' soon the night and darkness will -come most certainly and it's a breakneck path to my house."' " But, monsieur," said the Cure, " there is no' hurry. l. ;l heard from the village people that monsieur had expressed. the desire to ivisit our church.J There is, indeed, little to see, but itW-r—" > ' " I should be most delighted," I answered. " I will get the key," he said, leading me into his simple parlour and bidding me sit down while he went upstairs to fetch it. ..f The room was one of the poorest in point of decoration and furniture that I had seen in any house in the village ; and yet there was one object. which by its great ibeauty compensated for all the unlovliness of the rest. ■ It was the picture of a young woman painted in oils, and signed by a painter who, about 30 years ago, had been at the summit of. his art. The girl represented was the most lovely, and it seemed to me her face was one which had been the model of many other artists as famous as the one who had painted this portrait. A royally feminine face, and clothed with that expression of timidity, blushing and afraid, which in some women' is so sweet, and so strongly appeals to all that is noblest and most manly in man., . ; This", was my first impression ; but, as I looked at it' longer, the timidity, from being subjective, merely seemed to grow objective. It was not a timid girl ; it was a girl' afraid. Her eyes, seemed to leok with horror— for, on still closer observation, the fear grew into horror — on something that was not represented in the picture. How could it be, seeing that those fear-full eyes were looking out of the panel, straight over my head, who stood^ facing her, at the wall behind me ? The* picture was by far too fine a work of art for one to suppose that any attempt had been, made to enhance its interest by an extraordinary and theatrical mis-en-scene, and I felt it would be an insult to the great painter to turn round and see if anything was visible to explain the expression of those eyes. Moreover, it was the expression that held fae, no.t the reason thereof. , lam not •of those who seek in every picture an illus-, tration. I had stood before it some time, sadly envious of the technique of the departed hajad, and wondering what angel hand — the angel Raphael's perhaps — had guided the painter's fingers when he had mixed that colour of sun-kissed auburn that sung — and colours sing — from those clustering curls of hair, when the Cure came back into the room. ! ■ I turned as I heard his step, and as I did so my eyes fell on the wall on which my back had been turned. Directly opposite the picture and in the point of vision of its, eyes hung a rapier. As I looked closer I saw that the point of this sword was black — of that ill-omened black 'that blood long since shed does take. I almost felt angry. Blood-stained rapier, or chromo-lithograph of, some .hobgoblin,, ghoul, or, , spectre, it annoyed' me to think that anyone should have ventured, with the most vulgar taste of rjaeiodramatic effect,, to complete what was already so sublimely and perfectly complete. 16' was the' act of a bourgeoise of the bourgeoise, uneasy and disturbed if the Sevres china statuette of a Watteau shepherdess on the side of his Louis XV timepiece has not on, the yon side of it, fronting her as pendant, a languishing Corydon. My annoyance was so real that I paid but little attention to all that' the Cure, who had greatly sunk in my showed me and told me. I vaguely remember, that he had led me through a churchyard, where, by the grave of his predecessor, he pointed out the plot of ground where he was to rest himself ; that he told me that the church was many hundred years /old, and had been, dans le temps, the lodge of a ,conipany of Knights Templars, whose bodies lay shrouded.in some sepulchres in a remote part of the cemetery. The church •was not very interesting to me in my preoccupation. .There were some fine Louis XI candlesticks, in massive copper, on one of the altars. The Cure had bought them from a dealer in old metals, to whom an ignorant colleague had sold them at the rate of ninepence per pound. "Thenyou have some taste," I thought. " But that 1 only makes it more inexcusable." " 'twas examining, these candlesticks when a peasant girl came up to us, and with many clumsy curtsies told M. le Cure that his supper hafl been served. She had a motherly tone with the old man, this * girl 6f 15, and would not hear of his showing rile the vestry. ' •" "That'^ill be for another day," she said. "The important thing now is that M. le 'Cure should not let that beautiful trout get cold. . Orip has opened a bottle of Chablis to drink' with it,- and there will be an omelette aux ftnes'^hcrbes, and some peaches in the second service."

" She 'ffeems a very intelligent child," I "said, as I Accompanied the Cure to the door. V Is she your servant ? "' "Oh no/ he answered, with a smile, "that would nol be allowed. My servant is ill in

bed, arid 1 this 1 girl is e takirig her place. But no, monsieur, I canriot let you go rifow. You must come in and shard my supper, Jeannette, lay another cover." . ," I did that in advance," answered the girl. " When M. le Cure has visitors^ "■- " He insists on their becoming .his guests. You are right, and riaonsieur sees it." The, trout, .perfectly cooked, was firm and sweet; the Chablisycool and "fragrant, with a fainc scent- of violets, gleamed like livid gold 'in my glass ; the table was exquisitely laid ; the silver, the plate ,of peaches, the yellow roses laid on the, white cloth, were very beautiful to the.eyer;-the Cure, with melodious voice full of caressing notes, charmed my ear, as his -anecdotes' and wit delighted my mind. But all! these delights were powerless to distract my attention from the annoyance I had experienced. My calm was marred. : 'I barely listened to my host, yetgfayehjm enough' attention toVegretmy preoccupation. At another time his conversation would have charriied me, who, for now rriany ' months had '\ heard only' the sordid bargainings of the Norman peasants in their drawling and inharmonious patois, He had* been' speaking about the Oxford revival,, and had quoted the Pope's remarks on the Puseyites, that like bellringers they invited the world to- come into the Holy Church, but themselves did not enter it — when, unable to contain myself any longer, I rudely interrupted him, saying : " But why vulgarise her glorious passion ? Why make her sublime fear paltry and ridiculous ? One, annoys the timidity of children with bloodstained rapiers, skulls, or chromos of ' Fox's Martyrs. 1 They cannot explain her terror. They only insult her." The Cure smiled, and , seemed at once to understand what it was I was referring to. ! "You are right, monsieur," he said; "it is in bad taste. But it is Bette's fault, not mine." " Bette," he continued, " \& my old servant, the one who is lying ill upstairs. . She has ,been most faithful and devoted to me ever since she came to this place, now 20 years ago. I used to keep that rapier in my bedroom, but it was not long before she found it out, and then she insisted on hanging it where you saw it. ■ The arrangement has always rather spoiled my pleasure in the picture, and my reason is the same as yours ; but I could not find it in my heart thwart the good old woman's wish. , She would have it thus, and would take no contradiction on this point." " I suppose," I rejoined, " the good woman was vexed at the girl being frightened at ■nothing. The bloodstained sword would explain this fear, and make the tableau complete. It is natural in a peasant woman. But I should have been better pleased with Bette if she had completed' it in another way. For instance, if she had hung opposite those terrified eyes a picture by Delacroix or another classic. That would' have explained, and charmingly, the horror of a creation of M 's." ' , "You are severe on Delacroix," laughed the Cure. * " In my time he was to us what Meissonier. is to you to-day." , , " May I ask, monsieur," I said, " if there is any connection between the picture and the weapon?" " A terrible one," said the Cure. His tone was so sad, and there was such a 1 sorrowful expression on his, face as he an- , swered me, that I regretted my indiscretion and apologised to the Cure. • ' . " It is strange," he continued, after a pause, " that you should ask me this', 'to-day, for all this day my thoughts have been going back to the most terrible scene of my life. Nay, do not ask my pardon. 'I am glad to speak to you of it. Silence does not kill a sorrow ; it nurses it— l know it. For* thirty years I have never opened my mouth, and, the wound in my heart ' has deepened , all the more. Never, never be reserved in the troubles of your life. Rather cry them outralohe on the housetops. Does not a cry relieve bodily suffering ? Then why should .not the same relief be afforded in the same way to the tortures of conscience 1 Ask -for sympathy, and whether you get it or riot,' the mere asking will comfort, you. I will tell you about that rapier and that picture. My heart has been, very full to-day." Then bending over' the table to me he said — " That picture is the portrait of the only woman I have ever loved, and that rapier is the sword with which I killed my dearest friend. The blood on its point is the blood of the only heart of man that ever beat in love and sympathy with mine. "Ah," he continued, " you look surprised. One does not suppose any romance can be shrined beneath the soutane of a village Cure ; acd perhaps to look at me, I appear the very last man to have had a drama of so terrible a kind in my life. Yet, I am told, they made a very good play of it at one of the Boulevard theatres -in Paris. The world had the comedy ; the • tragedy was for me. It was just, quite just. My story? O, a common one. He was my friend; andshe, the lovely woman, was his wife. We had both paid court to her, but he had won her. He was richer than- I; ,and in France, you know, that is the first consideration of parents in giving their daughter. Well, though I loved her with all my heart, when she became his wife I was loyal to her as to him, as a gentleman and a friend. Of course, I sought her society — it was natural, was it not, that I should do so ? 111-advised ! Ob, ill-advised-- nobody sees that better than I do now. But I swear, if swear I might, that my loyalty ,to him arid to her never, even in .thought, wavered an instant The world, the wicked world, 1 thought otherwise; and wicked tongues went wagging. He waSimy.best friend, and I loved him like ' a brother — and all the more* dearly that he was her husband. Yet how could I act otherwise than I did when one day, urged by these wicked tongues, he rushed up to me on the boulevard and struck me on the face, calliiig me liar, traitor, coward I It was done in the eyes of Paris, and I was hot-blooded in those days. It was a provocation, a challenge which I was forced, as I thought then, to accept. We fought next morning in the Bois dcs Vincennes. It was an accident--yes, that thrust of mine was an accident— l ' shall always say, so. He ran upon my point. I could not help myself. But oh, the horror

of that moment 1 The artist who painted that portrait was one of those who took my Paul home. He told me that he looked thus when she saw him as I made him. As for me, I went for many months a crazed man. I think it was my great uncle, the Bishop of T , who first suggested to me that if any atonement for my crime there could be it would be in the devotion and service of a lifetime. I took his advice, for I was weary of the world, passed through the ordeal of the noviciate, and there ordained. My uncle gave me this presbytere,' and here I haye lived and worked for thirty years, humbly, obscurely, arid penitently. I have not atoned, , — no, no,' I have not atoned ; but I sometimes think that Paul knows all now, and pethaps has forgiven me." " I never saw her again. I never heard of her. Is Bhe dead 1 Did she marry again 1 Did she, as some say she intended to do, return to a convent? I do not know. I have never ceased to love her, as I did then, loyally and devoutly ; not as the woman I had wanted to marry, but as the wife of my Mend — as my dear Paul's wife." I said nothing. I felt sorry' now to have called forth this confession. The quiet despair of this old man, as he told me the, misery of his ruined life was a poignant sorrow to the eye and to the ear. When he had finished speaking he sat with his hand covering his eyes! I fancy there were tears in them. We were sitting thus in silence in the darkening room when the little maid came running in. ' "M. le Cure, M. le Cure," she cried, "come quickly ! Old Bette is dying. She calls for you." * " Oh ! do not say that," cried the Cure, starting to his feet. "Do not say that. My old Bette! My faithful servant! No, it cannot be that after twenty years of loyal service and sacrifice I am to lose her now," "It is very certain, mon pere" said the trembling girl, "tliac old Bette is .dying. She says so herself, and I can see that she is right, for'she looks just like la mere Manon did before she died. And she begs M. le Cure to come to her without delay." " I come, I come," cried the old man in tones of the deepest anguish. " But a doctor, •Jeannette, the doctor 1 Run for him, Oh, that is useless, of course. He lives ten miles away. What shall we do ? What will become of us 1 " " I have studied medicine," I said. I may be able to be of some assistance. If M. le Cure will permit, I " " Come, come 1 " he cried, clutching me by the arm. "It is the blessing of Providence. Is there anything you want ? It is disease of the heart. No — then come. But first, Jeanneatte, run 'upstairs and see whether Monsieur can enter." ' The girl had turned to obey, when through the silence of the house there rang the awful notes of a dying woman's voice. " Raoul, Raoul ! Where are you? Je one mev/rs, onon ami." It was the voice of a high-born lady. For what reason I know not, I turned towards the picture. It seemed the cry that should come from those lips. The Cure had started like a man' who is suddenly stabbed. " j&fon Bieu, Dion Bieu!" he cried. Whose voice is that?" And with this cry he turned towards the picture. " Raoul, Raoul ! You must come quickly, or it will be too late." "It is old Bette that is calling you, M. le Cure," Jeannette, pointing to the room above. "It is her voice, is' it not ? " "Bette's?" stammered the Cure, "the old peasant woman's ? No, no, no ! It was Mireille's, But " "Meanwhile, monsieur," said Jeannette, " the old woman dies." " I go," said the Cure. I did not follow him ; I had some feeling that there would be something solemn— something sacred was to be revealed in this last interview between the old Cure and his dying servant. I knew^that, great as may be the devotion and self-sacri-fice of the man, the devotion and self-, sacrifice of the woman that loves him, or has loved him, can be immeasurably greater, and I believed that he would find out that his lifelong penance had had even on this earth its passing great reward, and that the love of the woman he had worshipped in his youth had been with him and around him, silent, watchful, all these years. " It would have been a splendid devotion," I said to myself as I made my way home, "and one possible only in a woman, to humble herself as he had humbled himself— yet lower, to leave the boudoir of the woman of the world for the kitchen of a village presbytere — to put off the elegant toilet and to put on the peasant's gown, aye, and more than all this, to' live by his side unknown to him, respecting his loyalty to the dead — it is sublime." A year later I visited P again. They told me that the old Cure had died about two months ago. 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