The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 17 December 1908, Page 3

The Storyteller

THE CURE OP NESTARDS

I. We were touring Auvergne; and one day, in a particularly charming region, we halted at a quaint, old-fashioned inn, where they seemed very glad to see us, and made much of us, as though we had been specially invited or expected guests.

The village on the outskirts of which stood our delightful inn was called Nestards. It ■tfy^s situated at a very high altitude and close to a celebrated mountain pass. A small place indeed was this Nestards; with nothing to distinguish it but a lovely twelfth century churchy a few smaJl outlying farms, and perhaps a dozen cottages. Not far distant, in what had probably once been a crater — all this region is volcanic — a placid lake reflected the eternal sky.

There was a magnificent view from the cliurch. Standing on the broad stone steps, one could see Moiit Dore in the background, looming high above the nearer Dome mountains, their sharp, serrated peaks outlined against the azure heavens. So far away as to be hardly perceptible, three or four small farms, distant also from each other, told a tale of solitude and loneliness that almost made one shudder.

While we were eating the* excellent dinner our hostess had prepared, she told us of the privations and toils that winter brings to the residents of this beautiful but wild mountain region. Snowstorms are sudden and terrible ; for weeks and even months they are cut off from communication with the outside world. And if it be so at Nestards, the suffering is much greater among the dwellers in the isolated mountain farms. It is no unusual thing, at the end of the winter, to find shepherds and travellers buiried under the deep snowdrifts. It was in this way that we heard the pathetic story of the Cure of Nestards.

It is quite unnecessary to say, we presume, that the post of Cure of Nestards is not much sought after, or considered an enviable one. The parish, besides being very small, is widely scattered, the stipend a mere pittance, and the hardships and dangers almost incredible.

Some years ago the village had been without a cure for nearly a year. The people, who are very devout, were greatly distressed at being left deprived of the sacraments so long. Happily for them, a young and very fervent priest, recently ordained, at last offered to take charge of the parish.

The Abbe Leray was prepared for what he would have to encounter — the scanty means of subsistence, the lonely life, the difficult and tiresome journeys. One thing only had deterred him : the thought of his mother. She was a widow, and he her only child. She had endured bitter privations to educate him for the priesthood ; hoping, as her only reward in this worlcl, that she might' be permitted to take charge of his little household, and thus cheer and comfort him in his sacred calling. Her son hesitated to ask her to share the hard life which he knew lay before him ; but when slie heard of his intention, she assured him it was the very thing she would have desired. She was tsed to poverty, and was never lonely. How could she be, with God and her own Jean! Her willingness to accompany him decided the young priest. A few weeks later they were installed in the small, poorly constructed and tumble-down presbytery, where they were eagerly welcomed by all the parishioners. They arrived at Nestards in the summer time, and were entranced with the wild beauty of the place, and the charming old church. They soon made friends with all under their charge ; and then began the toilsome but uneventful life that continued for several years, fruitful in the saving of souls. At the end of the Abl)e Leray's third year at Nestards, one of the most distant farms in the parish changed tenants/ When the Cure heard of it, he at once set forth to call tipon the new incumbent. To his great surprise, he' was not only treated with coldness, but insolently requested never again to darken the doors of the house where he had expected to be received as a welcome guest. The new owner of the farm was a young man about thirty years of age — a gentleman by birth, who had led such a dissolute life in Paris that he had wasted nearly ail his patrimony, which had been considerable.^. He carried Avith him into his solitude a hatred of mankind, especially of priests. After the first visit, the Ahbe Leray did nob venture to call at Duret's again; but he always treated the young man with the greatest kindness whenever they l met. Instead of reciprocating politely, Duret would reply

rudely to his every salutation. But the good Cure's patience never failed:, he" remained unfailingly gentle and kind. -There seemed no limit to his forbearance, which. bo exasperated the ci-devant farmer that his prejudice developed into a fiendish hate. To gratify this ignoble passion, as well as to introduce some variety in. his monotonous life, DuTet conceived a- plan which he at r once, proceeded to put into action.' ■ One bitterly cold night, when the wind was blowing a hurricane, and the show beating against the windows, covering every* projecting' rock, and filling the deep gnlli«s with treacherous whiteness, Alphonse Duret decided it was time to play the practical joke on the Cure of which he had for some time been thinking. Wrapping himself up warmly in his splendid fur coat, he rode his sure-footed little mare down the mountain side, and knocked loudly at the presbytery door. ' Whti is there ? asked the Abbe Leray, hastily springingn ging out of bed. ' It is Alphonse Duret,' answered the visitor. The priest was already at the door. ' Come in — come in!' he cried. ' What has happened? Have you lost your way in the snow?' ' Noj Father,' rejoined the man, with the greatest respect. 'I am all right, but you must hasten. . Paul Maillot over yonder fell from the roof of his house this evening, and they think lie will die. He was calling loudly for you, and the wife begged me to come for you. It is to bad on such a night ; but I suppose it can not be helped. These people will have the priest.' ' For me, it is nothing but my duty,' called the Cure from the inside, as he dressed rapidly. ' But I thank you very much for coming. God will reward you.' c I don't know about that, Monsieur le Cure,' answered Duret, with a laugh that grated unpleasantly on the ears of the priest. But Duret's laugh always affected him thus; it was very bitter. In five minutes he was ready. Overjoyed that his black sheep had undertaken the difficult journey for a neighbor in spiritual need, he hastened to the church, got the Blessed Sacrament and the holy oils, and was ready to depart. • ' Get up behind me, Monsieur le Cure,' said Duret. The priest mounted. As he was carrying the Blessed Sacrament, he made no effort at conversation ; and supposed that Duret, aware of this, refrained from talking for the same reason. They were obliged to proceed slowly because of the snow. Duret, wrapped in a heavy fur coat and gloves, with a fur cap pulled down over his ears, was warm and comfortable; but- the poor priest, wearing a threadbare cassock and tliin overcoat, suffered severely. At last, as they emerged from a narrow pass, Alphonse turned and said, 'quite respectfully still: ' Monsieur de Cure, you will have to alight here. We are nearly at Maillot's, but I am sure my mare could not make the rest of the journey without falling. You can easily get there on foot; it is but a few yards distant. See, over yonder ! The snow has probably banked the windows, and hidden the light.' The meek and patient servant of God slid from the horse's back, and found himself standing in the snow, without mark or boundary to guide him. 'Thank you, and God bless you, Duret!' he said fervently. 1 Duret had gone only a few steps when he turned, and again, with his bitter laugh, exclaimed : ' You are very welcome, Monsieur le Cure. But I tliink you will need all your unfailing good-humor to carry you to any cottage hereabouts. So far as I know, there is none. That was only a joke. Ha-ha 1 I thought I would give you a little practice at night-walking, so that you might be familiar with the paths, provided you ever were really needed. It will be easy to scatter absolutions as you plunge through the snowdrifts.' So saying, with another loud, mocking laugh, he rode away, leaving the poor Gnre ..alone in the dark, in the face of a driving wind, in a desolate wilderness of ice and snow. In spite of his quiet, gentle nature, the Abbe had plenty of pluck and endurance". He knew that his life depended upon the- courage he should display in the fearful and hazardous journey he -Was- now to undertake. Bravely, then, he began to retrace his steps ; now veering to one side and now to the other, as, forced by the howling, merciless wind, he was carried hither and thither in his toilsome, hazardous march, Once or twice he' was on the ' point of falling over a precipice in the darkness^ but he regained his equilibrium just in time. After he had gone what seemed to him an incredible distance, the snow ceased falling, and in a few moments 'the moon broke through the clouds. After that the Vay J was not difficult. But it was only after several weary, hours bf exei*tion that he saw the village before him-,' in" the" early dawn. He managed to drag himself to the church, replace %\\e Blessed Sacrament i» the tabernacle, and kneel for a

brief space in thanksgiving to the God who had brought him safely home. Nor did he forget to ask repentance and pardon for the man who had so basely deceived him. All the first impulses of anger that had assailed him when the cruelty", of \ the trick had burst upon him, were nowforgotten in the gentle and merciful resignation of this true follower of his Divine Master. Afterward he had only strength left to stagger to the house and open the door. Then lie fell in a dead faint at the feet of his mother, who had lieon sitting up all night praying for his safe return. AVhen he recovered conscioxisness, he found himself surrounded by nearly all his immediate parishioner's. The cries of his mother., who thought him dead, had brought them, one after the other, to her aid. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to speak, they plied him with questions. His soutane was muddy and torn, his face cut and bleeding; they felt instinctively that he had been the victim of foul play. He told the story as it had happened, carefully avoiding names. Ho was well aware of the nature of the people among whom he lived : peacable, even stolid for the most part, when all went well, but terrible when aroused to anger or revenge. Yet in all that crowd of devoted peasants there was not one who did not suspect Duret.; and the good priest trembled, feeling that it was so. When Alphonse Duret next came to the village, he was greeted with black looks by many, and was pointedly avoided by others. Wondering how much they knew, he thought it best to absent himself, at least for a time. 11. The farm which Duret occupied was one of the most lonely and desolate in that lonely and desolate region. It had been part of the patrimony of his father, who had never - laid eyes upon it; and it was only as a last resource that the son took up residence there. An old cousin presided oveT his household, which was further increased by one female servant and two farm laborers. Very soon af bex his midnight adventure, Duret began to drink hard. The life he led in the mountains having become unbearable, he endeavored to drown his harrowing and gloomy thoughts in liquor ; but the attempt was vain. Finally, the cousin felt obliged to summon the doctor, fearing that Duret might be seized with an attack of delirium tremens. The physician gave him some medicine to soothe his nerves, informing him at the same time that if be did not change his habits the end would come speedily. When the Cure heard that Duret Was seriously ill, he immediately forgot all the injury the man had tried to do him, and prepared to pay him a visit. He carried over some books and papers, but the sick man would not receive them. On the contrary, he sent him a most insulting message, which the cousin was prudent and polite enough not to deliver. She was a pious old soul, loving Duret as though he had been her own child.' The priest returned home, assuring her he would pray for Alphonse, and begging her to send for him whenever slie could think he could be of use. Some time after, having continued his dissolute course, Duret again became -very ill; and his cousin, fearing he would die, determined to make another effort to have him see the priest. It was a cold but bright morning in February when the messenger left the farm. There seemed no immediate danger of bad weather; but by the time he reached Nestards heavy snow clouds were darkening the air, menacing one of those fearful storms that often occur in the mountains in winter. . , 7 This prospect, however, did not daunt tlie Cure in the least. In a few moments he was ready to accompany the lad on his homeward journey. As he was about to start, his mother, who had been busy in the kitchen,' tried to prevent him. beizing him by the hand, she pointed to the lowering sky and said : ' Jean, my son, remember how near you came to death before upon yonder mountain. For my sake as well as your own, I beseech you wait .until to-morrow, when the fury of the storm will .have passed. Duret is not in "immediate danger of ""death.' For answer the priest patted the wrinkled old hand ; and, gazing tenderly into the wistful eyes, he said: ' Dearest mother, Our Lord has confided this little flock to my care. What if, through my neglect or procrastination, the blackest sheep of all should be lost eternally? Will you, who have loved the Good Shepherd so well, and have sacrificed so much to make me a priest,- be the first to tempt me to be faithless to the charge God has *given unto my hands? 3 The eyes of the poor mother filled with tears; a sob .arose -in her. throat.- After a moment's silence she kissed - her "son and said: . ■>■'„. „ ',Go, my Jean, and do your duty. - You' are in the hands of Gpd. May He bring you safely home ! In any case, you are right : I would rather see you dead than unworthy of your sacred calling,*

'That is. right — that is brav;e, mother!' said the priest, pressing her hand and imprinting a kiss on her cheek. 4 And listen, mother, one more word. If anything slould happen to me, if •-l should die on the mountain and be unable to reach that, poor lost sheep and bring him back i o God, promise me that,' should he live, you will do all in your power to effect that which the Lord did. not permit me to do.' ' / Tie poor mother shuddered; she felt as though it were her son's last request. But she only said: ' I promise, dear Jean I ' 'God bless you for - that !' ; he replied, and, without another word of farewell, he stepped out into the biting wind. When the Abbe Loray and his companion left Nestards it was only three o'clock, but the storm clouds gathering above them made it seem almost like night. As they toiled up the mountain paths, beating their way against the wind, they feared the tempest might burst upon them at any moment. They reached Duret's farm as the first snowflakes were beginning to fall. ' Am I in time ?' asked the priest, as the door was opened. . . ' Yes,' answered Duret's cousin, who had been waiting for him. ' But I am sorry I sent for you, with this terrible snowstorm coming on. And, more than that, my poor Alphonse has been railing against priests and religion all the afternoon. O Monsieur le Cure, I fear he will not see you ! But, in any case, whether he does or not, you must pass the night here ; for it promises to be an awful one.' ' I shall go to him, nevertheless,' said the priest, and without further delay went into the sick-room. He was gieoted with a shower of oaths and curses, and ordered to leave the house. Finding that his presence was useless, he left tie room. ' But you shall not leave the house, Monsieur le Cure, answered the cousin. ' One would not turn a dog out to-night.' . She had hardly spoken when the sick man rushed into the room, brandishing a knife, and threatening to kill the priest if he did not depart that very moment. Without a word, the Care rose to go, thinking that he might be able to spend the night in an outhouse; but Duret seemed to divine his purpose. Kalf-clad as he was, he followed the Cure until he had passed well away from the farm buildings and was already on the mountain road. The Abbe Leray then resolved to retrace his steps homeward; for to remain on the mountain-side in such a snov-storiu was to invite certain death. It was not long before he heard shouts behind him, and turned to see. the lad who had accompanied him running after him with a lantern. ' Here, Monsieur le Cure, take this !' he said. ' The mistress sent it to you, with a box of matches. She asks me to beg your pardon for having brought you here, and on such a night.' ' Toll your mistress,' said the priest (the lad related it afterward), * not to be disturbed ; she only did her duty. Toll her also that whatever I may endure or sufier this night on my homeward way, even though it be death, 1 shall offer to Almighty God for the conversion of that poor soul.' ' But, Monsieur le Cure,' pleaded the boy, do not go. ■ Come back. I can hide you somewhere till morning; even the mistress need not know.' The Cure shook his head and smiled, as he answered : ' No, no ! It is unlucky to turn back, you know, Marcel. I shall go on.' And that was the last any human being ever saw of the Abbe Leray alive. The next morning his mother, who had not gone to bod all night, opened the door as soon as the first streak of light told that day was at hand. The snow had long ceased falling, the wind had abated, and dawn was just breaking above the white-capped mountains. Something was "lying on the path in front of her — something black — something that stretched stiff, straight arms, like a cross, along the snow. On one side a lantern, with the candle burned to the socket, lay overturned; on the other, a pyx, closed and empty. • From the candle, entirely consumed, they could guess that" the Cure must have been hours on his journey; and the empty pyx told that at the last, wearied; 1 ; "bewildered, lost, he had consumed tho sacred species, and lain down to die in the darkness, not fifty feet from lis own hojuse, his own church, where he had spent the sanctified years of his priestly life. And later, when they traced his footsteps in wandering, concentric circles round and round through the deep snow, they found tlat he must have spent several hours within sight and sound of tie sheltering walls, behind which his mother wept and prayed for his return. They placed the body in a rough coffin, and laid it iv front of the altar,

where he had so often dispensed for them tie Bread of Life. It was a fortnight before a ; priest could, be brought from below to officiate at tie funeral obsequies. On the morning of the -interment, when the Mass was about to begin, the congregation were astonished to see a man enter the church, pass up the aisle, and take his place beside the mother of the dead priest, who sat alone in the front pew. It was Alplionse Duret; and, great as was their indignation, no one ventured to remonstrate: all were afraid of him. From time to time they saw the man was sobbing; and saw also that the stricken mother, herself quietly weeping, would place her hand upon his arm, as though to restrain and console him. When Mass was over, the officiating priest preached a short sermon, relating the circumstances of the Cure's death as well as he knew them, and enumerating the saintly deeds that had from the first distinguished the dead pastor who had given his life to save a wayward sheep of his flock. The preacher, who was a stranger, concluded as follows: C OI, that that misguided man could listen to my words to-day, could kneel beside the corpse of- the martyr who sacrificed his life for the salvation of that erring soul 1 It could hardly fail to pierce his heart, to bring him to repentance and pardon.' ' That man is here, and I am he! ' cried Alphonse Duret, springing to his feet; and then, passing into the aisle, and standing beside the coffin, he told the story of his intercourse with the dead priest from the time he had arrived at Nestards. Concealing nothing, he dramatically and forcibly related the incident of several months before, when he had perpetrated so cruel an imposition upon the Cure ; how he had left him in the middle of the night upon a lonely mountain path, piled high with driving snow; how he had jeered and mocked at him; low, on the night the faithful shepherd had been summoned to his bedside, he had driven him forth to his death. ' And now,' he continued, ' after asking pardon of the poor mother whom I have bereaved of her son, of the flock whom I have deprived of their pastor, of the God whom I have insulted, outraged, and blasphemed, I say to you, when all is over — when you have laid the saint in his last resting place — do with me -what you please. Tear me limb from limb if you will, for I deserve it ; or hang me to the nearest tree, or fling me from some frowning precipice. Whatever death may be decreed me, I shall submit without a word. Bui; first let me make my peace with the God whom I have so long derided and despised ; let me go to confession. That is all I ask. And let me say in conclusion that I have made provision during her lifetime for the poor mother of whom I lave made a veritable Mater Dolorosa. I have done ! ' The people of Nestards and its environs are true Christians; but how could they be otherwise when she who had lost her only son, her all on earth, fully and tenderly forgave his murderer? She had made a promise, and she kept it to the letter. She was still living at Nestards when I last visited it, occupying a small cottage with the coiisin of Alplionse Duret, the rent of whose two farms was ample provision for both, their simple -wants being few. Duret has been for several years a monk of La Trappo. — Aye Maria.