The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 15 August 1912, Page 5

The Storyteller

THE PRIEST-HUNTER OF THE INN At the time of which we write, in 1793, terror and desolation reigned throughout Vendee. The churches were either burned to the ground or stripped of their ornaments and left lonely and desolate; and the farms were well night deserted, for all the able-bodied men had joined the Royalist army under Cathelineau. As for the priests, ail who declined to take the 'impious oath demanded by the revolutionary Government were in exile or concealment. In the village of St. Firmin, the cure, I’Abbe Guyader, steadily refused to abandon his flock. In spite of the stringent laws issued against the clergy, he remained at his post. The church was closed, it is true, but he continued to say Mass, sometimes in a lonely manor, or again in the mysterious depths of the woods that loom up throughout that province. At night he might be seen gliding beneath the shadow of the thick hedges or creeping wearily through the fields of gorse hastening from one farmstead to another to bless, counsel, and comfort the sick and suffering. In order to. escape detection more surely he frequently changed his place of residence. But from his own children the good priest had nought to fear: not one amongst them could be brought either for love or money to betray his-pastor. One family alone in the whole village of St. Firmin inspired the abbe with feelings of grave distrust—that of Brassac, the innkeeper who lived on the village place, a stone’s-throw from the now desolate and desecrated church. Neither Brassac nor his wife belonged to the country. They had come from the south of France some years before the outbreak of the revolution, and had settled at St. Firmin, where they were looked upon with mingled feelings of distrust, dislike, and fear. Both professed Republican - Opinions. They had horrified their neighbors by expressing delight at the t King’s execution, and they were accused by the villagers in general of having secretly betrayed into jfche hands of, the Republican authorities of St. George-sur-Loire several priests and notables whose hiding places they had somehow discovered. The aspect of Pierre Brassac, dark, surly-looking, and of his wife, a ■woman with a glib tongue and cruel eyes, did much, it must be said, to confirm these evil reports. The dark winter days passed by, and although it happened several times that the patrols from St. George-sur-Loire had been sent in search of the cure, he had always found it easy to elude his enemies, for the loyal-hearted peasants kept their priest’s secret bravely. About Christmas time ‘ Citoyenne ’ Brassac began to show unusual interest in the priest’s whereabouts. She often spoke of him with apparent friendliness to Mere Jeanneton, her nearest neighbor, a simple-minded soul, who was inclined to look upon these conversations as a sign of her neighbor’s approaching conversion. When she communicated her impressions to the'other villagers, however, they shook their heads and bade the old woman to beware of gossiping with the cito- : yenne.

‘ You may be very certain that she intends no good,’ they added; but Mere Jeanneton only coldly acquiesced, being already half won over by the wily southerner’s natural eloquence and apparent sincerity. The night of the 20th December was dark, and stormy; the wind moaned round the lonely farmsteads, among the leafless branches and across the barren lands or commons so numerous in Vendee, Along the path leading from St, George-sur-Loire to St. Firmin - a small party of ten soldiers crept steadily under the cover of the darkness. When they had reached a field ; adjoining the inn one of their number advanced’ a few, steps and struck three times against the window. All’s well said a voice within. The door opened and Brassac cautiously admitted the little* party. A large fire was burning in the hearth ; wine and spirits stood, ready on the table. ‘There is no time to lose,’ said the sergeant, a handsome young fellow, whose accent showed him to be a native of Alsace. ‘ If there is work to be done, let us do it quickly. Where is the priest we are to take back with us?’ ‘Gently, gently, citizen/ said Brassac; ‘he will be here presently. Meanwhile, let us sit down and drink to the prosperity of the glorious Republic, and to the extermination of kings, priests, nobles, aristocrats of every description.’ . The men assented willingly, with the exception of the young sergeant, who evinced a certain weariness, as if the job before him was not to his liking. Meanwhile Jeanne Brassac slipped on her wooden shoes, wrapped herself in a long cloak, , and taking a lantern in her hand, sallied forth gaily after exchanging a few whispered words with her husband. She went straight to Mere Jeanneton’s cottage and knocked loudly. No answer came; the old woman lived alone, and was notoriously a timid soul. . Citoyenne Brassac knocked again, and hearing a slight sound within, she cried out: ‘For pity’s sake help me! Have mercy on the most miserable woman upon earth.’ Mere Jeanneton recognised her neighbor’s voice and opened the door. ‘Alas!’ cried the other, ‘have pity on me. My husband is dying in great pain. His sufferings are fearful; he, the enemy of priests, is crying out for the cure. He must see him and see him directly.’ L Mere Jeanneton’s first impulse was to rejoice at her impious neighbor’s conversion, then i an afterthought made her a little more cautious. Surely you can wait till morn she said. ‘When your husband has not wanted to see the cure for so many years, a few hours more or less cannot much signify.’ Citoyenne Brassac wrung her hands. ‘Oh, but you do not understand,’ she cried. ‘ Pierre is dying, dying! To-morrow morning may be too late. I dare not go back to him without a priest. The cure is at Lamorosiere, is he not ? I am going there.’ And she made a move in the direction of a farm inhabited by a family who were well known for. their devotion to God and His priests. ‘And your dying husband is left alone?’ asked Mere, Jeanneton, still suspicious. _ ‘No, indeed/ returned the other. Marie Louise Pinot has offered to watch him. It was she who advised me to go to Lamorosiere.’ At these words Mere Jeanneton’s last suspicions vanished. If. Marie Louise, a good, pious woman, who often watched by the sick, was at the inn, and if she sent the citoyenne on her errand all must be well. : The cure is not at Lamorosiere now,’ whispered Mere Jeanneton,, confidentially, ‘but much nearer—at le Lavoir, where old Jean Marie is dangerously ill. You will find him there.’ But as the citoyenne, with protestations of gratitude, hastened away, Mere Jeanneton’s suspicions returned. ‘ * I shall go out , and help Marie Louise to mind your husband,’ - she cried out through the darkness. ‘lf you like,’ answered the other; ‘but I advise

you not to go out to-night. I can hardly keep my feet.' ; „ Just at that moment a violent gust of wind extinguished Mere Jeanneton’s candle and put'an end to her good resolution. She hastily barred the door and sought her bed, vaguely anxious as to the night’s work, and yet not having sufficient courage to test the truth of her neighbor’s story by crossing the lonely storm-swept place. A few minutes’ brisk walking brought Citoyenne Brassac to the Lavoir farm, where a light was still burning. Old Jean Marie lay in his bed sleeping peacefully, his eldest daughter, Anne, was saving the Eosary by his side, and the two young girls were resting in an adjoining room. The three girls were alone with their old father in the farmstead, their brothers long since having joined the Royalist army under Cathelineau. The citoyenne’s knock soon brought the watcher to the door. ‘ Who is there?’ she asked. ‘ A neighbor in great trouble,’ was the reply. ‘ For the love of God open quickly.’ • Anne cautiously unbarred the door, and opened it sufficiently to recognise the visitor. A shade of terror and distrust passed over her honest face. The woman repeated her story, and to all appearances was beside herself with sorrow; but Anne Florent was less simpleminded than Mere Jeanneton, and she remained unmoved. At last, however, she somewhat coldly expressed "her surprise at the cure being supposed to be at the farm, and prepared to close the door. ‘ I am sorry for you,’ she added, ‘ but believe me, I cannot help you in this matter.’ But the cure is here,’ persisted the other. ‘I know he is and you know, too Because my husband is a friend of the ‘‘Bleus” you would let him die without help or pardon ; that is the charity of the Christians!’ she shrieked in apparent, anguish. Her loud voice and violent words awakened the sick man who lay anxiously listening. The two younger girls also crept from their beds and stood clinging to their sister. Anne Florent remained unmoved. ‘Go home now,’ she said at last; ‘to-morrow I will see if I can help you.’ ‘To-morrow will be too late,’ broke out Jeanne Brassac. ‘ I tell you, girl, that my husband is dying now —at this very minute. Because we are “Bleus” we are fit only to be repulsed and cast aside in our distress. This, then, is the pity your priests teach you!’ Meanwhile a door had opened softly, a man in the dress of a peasant, w T ith a singularly pure and gentle countenance, had, unobserved by the woman, joined the little group. He now spoke : ‘ No, indeed, my daughter, it shall never be said that a human being, whether friend or foe, has died unshrived through any fault of mine.’ With these words the Abbe Guyader, for it was he, came forward. ‘ Lead me to your husband,’ he said simply. ‘ I am ready.’ Anne Florent groaned aloud in accents of despair: the sick man, who overheard the dialogue, clasped his hands with grief and apprehension. ‘ Father, I beseech you to wait until to-morrow ; it may be a trap. For pity’s sake wait!’ whispered the elder girl with white face and terror-stricken eyes. ‘ Oh, Father, do wait. I cannot help fearing it will not be well for you.’ ‘ Peace, my daughter,’ said the priest. ‘ Better far that I should risk my poor life than endanger the salvation of an immortal soul.’ And with these words he stepped out into the darkness. Falling on their knees the three sisters began to say the Rosary with great fervour while the abbe and his guide pursued their way in silence through the night. _ Meanwhile at the inn Pierre Brassac and his guests made merry over their wine, many a rude jest and blasphemous pleasantry passed amongst . them : the young sergeant alone seemed annoyed and absentminded. At length, looking.at the clock, Brassac rose. ‘ Now,’ he said, ‘ the comedy is to begin.’

And going towards the bed that occupied the middle of the room he lay down, drew the bedclothes over him, and counterfeited the moans and groans of a man in violent pain. Roars of laughter greeted this performance, ‘ Should the cure turn coward and refuse to com& to-night,’ said one of the party, ‘ what then?’ * Trust the citoyenne’s glib tongue to bring him sure enough,’ said Brassac. ‘ She is a sharp one and able to unearth our game. Take another glass to keep up your spirits until my ghostly father appears on the scene.’ Just then a knock was heard. One of the soldiers quickly opened the door, and Jeanne Brassac and her companion appeared. The light, the warmth, the odor of brandy, the sight of the soldiers,seemed hardly to strike the priest, absorbed by the thought of his sacred duty, he walked straight up to the bed where the inn-keeper now lay silent. ~ ‘ So Pierre carried out the farce in due form,’ laughed the woman. ‘He might have spared himself the trouble.’ The soldiers echoed her laugh, thinking, too, that Brassac was determined to keep up his role as a sick man and expecting some new blasphemous joke to issue from the bed. All was silent, however. Even the soldiers had ceased their coarse jests and rough conversation, and ; the brandy glasses had ceased to clink. All eyes were riveted on the priest, who had approached the bed of the man who was supposed to be in the agonies of death. Pierre Brassac lay still as death. ‘ lie acts his part to perfection ’ thought each of the assembly present. .- ‘Does the patient sleep ?’. asked the priest. * Oh, the poor man is probably tired with waiting 1 for you,’ replied his wife. You ought not to have kept us waiting for you so long.’ ' :^ The cure meantime bent over the man, touched his hands, then turning to Jeanne Brassac: It is too —he is dead ‘Dead!’ she cried. "Dead! You are mad.’ And drawing back the curtains and bedclothes she called for a light. The soldiers drew near in silence. Their sergeant put a mirror to Brassac’s lips, felt his pulse and his heart, moistened his tongue, strove to warm the icy hands and feet —all was in vain; the inn-keeper was dead; struck down by the vengeance of God. • As for the priest, he fell on his knees by the bedside and prayed in silence. Then rising, he turned towards the soldiers : ‘I am your prisoner,’ he said, ‘ and am ready to follow you.’ ■ , ; No one answered. Jeanne Brassac crouching on the floor, seemed turned to stone the soldiers stood dumbfounded and terrified, and the young sergeant, pale and grave, was the first to speak. ‘Go your way, Monsieur le Cure,’ he said. ‘ You are a free man.’ And under his breath he added, ‘ Pray for us.’