“Is it possible,” said Monsieur le curé, “that you should have so distinct a sight of them? But if your faults are such as you say, my son, it were better not to describe them, and to limit yourself to detesting them inwardly.”
“Would you have my sins fashioned like Adonis, Monsieur le curé?” said the Abbé. “But enough of that. And you, barber, give me to drink. Do you know Monsieur de la Musardière?”
“Not that I am aware,” said Monsieur Coquebert.
“Learn then that he was very fond of women,” said my good master.
“It is thereby,” said the curé, “that the devil takes great advantage of man. But what do you want to arrive at, my son?”
“You will soon see,” said my good master. “Monsieur de la Musardière gave tryst to a maiden in a stable. She went, and he let her go as she came. Do you know why?”
“I am ignorant,” said the curé. “But enough of that.”
“Not so,” continued Monsieur Coignard. “Know then that he took care to have no connection with her for fear of engendering a horse, for which he would have been criminally prosecuted.”
“Ah!” said the barber, “he might rather have feared to father a donkey.”
“Without doubt,” said the curé, “but that does not help us on our way to Paradise. It befits us to take up the good road again. A short time since you gave us such edifying words.”
Instead of replying my good master began to sing in quite a strong voice:
To put King Louis in good fettle
They sent for a dozen lads of mettle,
Landerinette.
Who led a jovial life and free,
Landeriri.
“If you want to sing, my son,” said Monsieur le curé, “sing rather some beautiful Burgundian carol. You will gladden your soul while you sanctify it.”
“Willingly,” answered my good master. “There are some by Guy Barozai which I hold, in their apparent rusticity, as finer than the diamond and more precious than gold. This one, for instance:
Then when the time did befall
That Jesus Christ came on to earth,
The ox and ass with their breath
Kept him warm in the stall.
How many an ox and an ass
I know in the kingdom of Gaul,
How many an ox and an ass
Would have grudged him that little, alas!
The surgeon, his wife, and the curé took up together:
How many an ox and an ass
I know in the kingdom of Gaul,
How many an ox and an ass
Would grudge him that little, alas!
And my good master went on in more feeble voice:
But the part of the tale I like best,
Is that the ox and the ass
Both of them let the night pass
Without food or water or rest.
How many an ox and an ass
In stuff, or in silken vest,
How many an ox and an ass
Would grudge him that little, alas!
Then he let his head fall back on the pillow and sang no more.
“There is good in this Christian,” said Monsieur le curé. “Much good, and just now again he edified even me by his beautiful words. But he still causes me anxiety, for all hangs on the end; and one does not know what may remain at the bottom of the basket. God in His goodness wills that a single moment should save us; furthermore, this moment must be the last; so that everything depends on a single minute, by the side of which the rest of our life is as nothing. This is what makes me tremble for this sick man for whom the angels and the devils are fighting so furiously. But one must not despair of the divine mercy.”
XX
TWO days passed in cruel alternations. Thereafter my good master fell into a state of extreme weakness.
“There is no longer any hope,” Monsieur Coquebert said in a low voice, “look how his head is sunk into the pillow and notice how sharp his nose has become.”
Indeed, my good master’s nose, formerly big and red, offered no more than a curved edge as livid as lead.
“Tournebroche, my son,” said he, in a voice which was still full and strong, but with a note in it I had not heard before, “I feel that I have but a short time to live. Go and find that good priest that he may hear my confession.”
Monsieur le curé was in his vineyard, whither I ran.
“The vintage is done,” he told me, “and a more abundant one than I hoped; let us go and assist the poor man.”
I took him back to the bedside of my good master and we left him alone with the dying man.
He came out after an hour and said to us:
“I can assure you that Monsieur Jérôme Coignard is dying in admirable sentiments of piety and humility. At his request, and in consideration of his fervour, I am about to give him the holy viaticum. While I put on my alb and stole have the goodness, Madame Coquebert, to send the child who serves low mass for me every day, to the sacristy, and prepare the room to receive the blessed sacrament.”
Madame Coquebert swept the chamber, put a white coverlet on the bed, placed at the bed-head a small table which she covered with a cloth, put two candlesticks with lighted candles upon it, and a china bowl where a sprig of box lay steeped in the holy water.
Soon we heard the bell being rung in the road by the server, and we saw the cross appear, held up by a child, and the priest clad in white and bearing the sacred elements. Jael, Monsieur d’Anquetil, Monsieur and Madame Coquebert, and I, fell on our knees.
“Pax huic domui.” said the priest.
“Et omnibus habit antibus” answered the server.
Then Monsieur le curé took the holy water with which he sprinkled the sick man and the bed.
He remained in meditation for a moment and then said:
“My son, have you no declaration to make?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Abbé Coignard in a firm voice. “I forgive my assassin.”
Then the celebrant, drawing the host from the ciborium, said:
“Ecce agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi.”
My good master answered, sighing:
“Shall I speak with My Lord, I who am but dust and ashes? How shall I venture to approach Thee, I who feel that no good exists in me that can give me courage? How can I receive Thee into my house after having so often offended Thine eyes filled with loving-kindness?”
And Monsieur l’Abbé Coignard received the holy viaticum in a profound silence, rent by our sobs and by the loud noise made by Madame Coquebert in blowing her nose.
After the administration my good master made a sign to me to draw near his bed, and said in a voice weak but distinct:
“Jacques Tournebroche, my son, reject, along with the example I gave you, the maxims I may have proposed to you during my period of folly, which alas! has lasted as long as my life. Fear women and books for the enervation and the pride one gains from them. Be humble in heart and mind. God grants a clearer intelligence to the simple-minded than the learned can ever instil. He is the Giver of all knowledge, my son. Do not listen to those who, like myself, subtilise over good and evil. Do not allow yourself to be touched by the beauty and the finesse of their talk. For the kingdom of God lies not in words but in virtue.”
He lay silent, exhausted. I seized his hand lying on the sheet and covered it with my tears and kisses. I told him he was our master, our friend, our father, and that I should not know how to live without him.
And I remained for a long time sunk in sorrow at the foot of his bed.
He passed such a peaceful night that I conceived a sort of despairing hope. This condition lasted all through the day that followed. But towards evening he became restless and murmured such indistinct words that they must forever remain a secret between God and himself.
At midnight he sank once more into deep prostration, and we only heard the light sound of his nails plucking at the sheets. He knew us no longer.
Towards two o’clock the death-ra
ttle began; the hoarse, hurried breath that issued from his chest was loud enough to be heard far off in the village street, and my ears were so filled with it that I thought I could hear it for days following that wretched night. At dawn he made a sign with his hand which we could not understand, and gave a deep sigh. It was the last. His countenance assumed in death a majesty worthy of the genius which had animated it and whose loss will never be repaired.
XXI
MONSIEUR LE CURÉ of Vallars gave Monsieur Jérôme Coignard solemn burial. He sang the funeral mass and gave absolution. My good master was borne to the cemetery attached to the church. And Monsieur d’Anquetil gave a supper at Gaulard’s to all the people who had assisted at the ceremony. They drank new wine and sang songs of Burgundy.
The following day I went with Monsieur d’Anquetil to thank Monsieur le curé for his pious care.
“Ah,” said the holy man, “this priest has given us great consolation by his edifying end. I have seen few Christians die in such admirable sentiments, and the memory of them should be preserved on his tomb in a fine inscription. You are both of you clever enough to do this successfully, and I will see to it that the epitaph of the defunct is engraved on a large white stone in the fashion and order in which you shall compose it. But bear in mind, in thus making the stone speak, that it proclaim but the praises of God.”
I begged him to believe that I would bring all my zeal to bear on it, and Monsieur d’Anquetil promised on his part to give it a gallant and graceful turn.
“I will try my hand,” said he, “at French verse, modelled on those of Monsieur Chapelle.”
“Well and good,” said Monsieur le curé. “But are you not curious to see my wine-press? The wine will be excellent this year and I have gathered enough for my use and for that of my servant. Alas! were it not for the blight we should have had far more.”
After supper Monsieur d’Anquetil asked for the inkstand and began to compose French verses. Then, impatiently, he flung pen, ink, and paper away from him.
“Tournebroche,” said he, “I have only written two lines and I am not certain if even those are good; here they are such as they have come to me:
“Monsieur Coignard here doth lie,
Soon or late we all must die.”
I answered that they had this much good in them that they needed no third.
And I spent the night in turning a Latin epitaph in the following manner:
D.O.M.
HIC JACET
in spe beatae aeternitatis
DOMINUS HIERONYMUS COIGNARD
presbyter quondam in Bellovacensi collegio
eloquentiae magister eloquentissimus
Sagiensis episcopi bibliothecarius solertissimus
Zozimi Panopolitani ingeniosissimus
translator
opéré tamen immaturata morte intercepto
periit enim cum Lugdunum peteret
judea manu nefandissima
id est a nepote Christi carnificum
in via trucidatus
anno aet lii.
comitate fuit optima doctissimo convitu ingenio sublimi facetiis jucundus sententiis plenus donorum Dei laudator fide devotissima per multas tempestates constanter munitus humilitate sanctissima ornatus saluti suae magis intentus quam vano et fallaci hominum judicio sic honoribus mundanis nunquam quaesitis sibi gloriam sempiternam meruit.
Which means
HERE LIES in hope of blissful eternity MESSIRE JEROME COIGNARD priest formerly eloquent professor of eloquence in the college of Beauvais most zealous librarian to the bishop of Séez author of a fine translation from Zozimus the Panipolitan which unhappily he left unfinished when overtaken by premature death.
He was struck down on the Lyons road in the 52nd year of his age by the scoundrelly hand of a Jew and thus perished a victim to a descendant of the executioners of Jesus Christ.
He was agreeable in intercourse learned in conversation and of a lofty genius flowing with joyful talk and admirable precepts and praised God in his works.
Through the tempest of life he kept an unshaken faith more careful for the salvation of his soul than for the empty and deceitful goodwill of mankind it was while living without honours in this world that he directed his path to eternal glory.
XXII
THREE days after my good master had rendered up his soul Monsieur d’Anquetil decided to set off once more. The carriage was mended. He gave orders to the postilions to be ready for the following morning. His society had never been pleasing to me. In the sad mood I was in it had become odious. I could not bear the idea of following him with Jael. I resolved to seek employment at Tournus or Mâcon and to live there hidden until the storm having abated, it would be possible for me to return to Paris where I knew my parents would receive me with open arms. I made known this plan to Monsieur d’Anquetil and excused myself for not accompanying him further. He exerted himself at first to keep me with a good grace which he had not led me to expect, then he willingly gave me my leave. Jael was more regretful over it, but being naturally sensible she understood the reasons I had for leaving her.
The night preceding my departure, while Monsieur d’Anquetil drank and played cards with the surgeon-barber, we went out on to the market-place, Jael and I, to breathe the air. It was scented with grasses and filled with the song of crickets.
“What a beautiful night,” I said to Jael, “the year will bring no more like it, and perhaps in all my life I shall never again see one so sweet.”
Before us the village cemetery, flower-filled, spread its immobile waves of grass, and the moonlight whitened the scattered grave stones on the dark herbage. The thought came to us both at the same time to go and say good-bye to our friend. The spot where he reposed was marked by a cross sprinkled with pictured tears, whose foot sank in the soft earth. The stone on which the epitaph was to be inscribed was not put up yet. We sat down near by, on the grass and there, from unconscious and natural inclination, we fell into one another’s arms, without fear of offending with our kisses the memory of a friend whose profound wisdom rendered him indulgent to human weaknesses.
All at once Jael whispered in my ear, where for the moment her lips happened to be:
“I see Monsieur d’Anquetil on the cemetery wall, and he is looking keenly in our direction.”
“Can he see us in the shadow?” I asked.
“He can certainly see my white skirts,” she replied. “It is quite enough to make him want to see more.”
I was already thinking of drawing my sword and I was quite decided to defend two existences which at the moment were indeed all but one. Jael’s calm astonished me; nothing in her gestures or her voice betrayed fear.
“Go,” said she, “fly, have no fear for me. It is a surprise which I have more or less desired. He was beginning to tire, and this is excellent for reawakening his taste and adding a spice to his love. Go, and leave me. The first few moments will be hard to bear for he is of a passionate disposition. He will beat me but I shall only be dearer to him afterwards. Farewell.”
“Alas,” I exclaimed “did you but take me, Jael, to sharpen the desire of a rival?”
“I am surprised that you too wish to quarrel with me. Go, I tell you.”
“What, and leave you thus?”
“It must be. Farewell. He must not find you here. I want to make him jealous, but with discretion. Farewell, farewell.”
I had scarcely taken a few steps in the labyrinth of tombs when Monsieur d’Anquetil having come near enough to recognise his mistress cried and swore loud enough to wake all these village dead.
I was impatient to free Jael from his wrath. I thought he would kill her. Already I was gliding to her rescue in the shadow of the tombs. But after some minutes, while I watched them carefully, I saw Monsieur d’Anquetil push her out of the cemetery and take her to Gaulard’s inn, with the remains of a fury she was well capable of pacifying alone and without help.
I regained my room when they had gone back to theirs. I did no
t sleep that night, and spying on them in the dawn, through the opening in the curtains, I saw them cross the courtyard of the inn with great show of friendship.
Jael’s departure increased my sadness. I threw myself full-length in the middle of my room, and, my face in my hands, wept till evening.
XXIII
AT this period my life loses the interest it had borrowed from circumstances, and my destiny, conforming once more with my character, offers nothing but what is commonplace. If I prolonged my memoirs my narrative would soon appear insipid. I will bring it to a close in a few words. Monsieur le curé of Vallars gave me a letter of recommendation to a wine merchant in Mâcon, with whom I found employment for two months, at the end of which my father wrote he had arranged my affairs and that I could return to Paris without any danger.
I immediately took the coach and made the journey with some recruits. My heart beat as if it would burst when I saw once again the rue St. Jacques, the clock of St. Benoît-le-Bétourné, the sign-board of the Trois Pucelles, and the St. Catherine of Monsieur Blaizot.
My mother wept at the sight of me. I wept, we embraced, and we wept anew. My father, coming in all haste from the Petit Bacchus, said, with softened dignity:
“Jacquot, my son, I will not hide from you that I was very irritated with you when I saw the police enter the Reine Pédauque to take you, or failing you, to take me in your place. They would not listen to anything, affirming that it would be permitted to me to explain myself in prison. They sought you on a complaint lodged by Monsieur de la Guéritaude. I formed a horrible notion of your evil ways in my own mind. But having learnt from your letters that they were but peccadilloes I thought only of seeing you again. I have consulted many a time with the landlord of the Petit Bacchus on the means of hushing up your affair. He always answered me, ‘Maître Léonard, go and find the judge with a big bag of ecus and he will give you back your son as white as snow.’ But ecus are rare here, and there is neither chicken, goose nor duck which lays golden eggs in my house. At the most, nowadays, the poultry pays but for the fire in my chimney. By good luck your sainted and worthy mother had the idea of going to find Monsieur d’Anquetil’s mother, who we knew was busied in her son’s favour, sought for at the same time as you and for the same affair. For I recognise, my Jacquot, that you have played the scoundrel in company with a gentleman, and my heart is too well placed not to feel the honour which is thus reflected over all the family. Your mother then demanded an interview with Madame d’Anquetil in her house in the faubourg St. Antoine. She had dressed herself neatly as if she were going to mass, and Madame d’Anquetil received her kindly. Your mother is a saintly woman, Jacquot, but she is not very well-bred, and she spoke at first unconventionally and in an unseemly fashion. She said, ‘Madame, at our age, nothing is left us after God, but our children.’ It was not the thing to say to that great lady who still has her lovers.”
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 75